The Cure to Sanity
by Rin-Gildy
Summary: What happens when a deranged criminal falls into obsession with his young and impressionable psychiatrist? Pain, passion and death ensues as the King of Gotham City discovers his Queen at the mad house. A Joker/Harley Quinn origin story. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi everyone!**  
 **  
I've been reading everybody's amazing stories for months now, and so thought it was high time I added my little Harley and Joker fantasy to the pot. Disclaimer: I own nothing of DC, am not making any money off this, etc etc.**

 **Slight Update: This is the first installment of the edited version (woohoo). If anyone wants the original version (trust me, I don't think you do), I still have it and am happy to send it out. Happy reading!**

* * *

The mildly entertaining game show Harley was watching switched channels suddenly, depicting a dark street illuminated by burning buildings and the flashing red and blue lights of police cars. Surprised, she choked on her caramel ice-cream and hit her chest several times to dislodge the spoonful sliding down the wrong pipe. The bottom of the screen read _'Breaking News'_ as the camera focused on a slim, red-haired reporter. Harley fumbled with the remote control and quickly turned up the volume.

"— _irmed that the notorious mob boss known only as the Joker, has once again been caught by Gotham's own vigilante, Batman. Police report that that Batman apprehended the Joker after being alerted of a hostage situation during a bank heist in Downtown Gotham."_

Harley straightened and gaped at the screen as live footage of Batman restraining the bruised and bloodied gangster flashed on. The Joker was…well, he was laughing. Hysterical, really. His cackle was loud and biting, and each individual sound pierced her ears like a nail pounded by a hammer. His eyes met the camera and he howled even louder. Harley subconsciously ran her tongue over her teeth. He must have lost his at one point for them to be covered in so much silver. Then again, it could have been some kind of underground fashion statement; his shirt, a pretty wine-red colour, complemented the vivid green hair that hung lank over his eyes, and—

 _Is he wearing bling?_

Huh. So, gangsters actually did that.

The reporter's voice continued on: _'The Joker is to be taken into police custody for questioning, and it has been speculated that he will return to The Elizabeth Arkham Asylum in the following weeks to undertake treatment."_

The channel switched back to the gameshow.

Jaw slack and eyes wide, Harley stared at the television unblinking. The contestant she had been half-heartedly rooting for was eliminated, although not even the disappointed booing from the onset crowd were registering with her at that moment. After what felt like an age, her body caught up with her brain and she moaned long and loud, shoving the ice-cream tub out of the way and smacking her head down against the coffee table. She gazed blankly at the swirl of colours running through the timber.

This was a good thing.

The Joker was Gotham's most chaotic and dangerous citizen, a fact he frequently reminded the populace through senseless violence and suave criminality. The city—as infected with corruption as it was—would be an infinitely safer place with him locked away behind steel walls and a straitjacket.

This was a good thing.

Harley was one of the city's minority he hadn't affected directly. The most she could boast of having been terrorised by him was when she had been stuck in a three-hour traffic jam six months ago. He and his thugs set a number of shops ablaze in a high-end shopping district after pilfering anything of worth. Just his usual Sunday afternoon activity.

This was a good thing.

Well…at least, it would be if one didn't work where he'd be locked up for the rest of his days. Which Harley did. It wasn't that he scared her—although, he would if he had a gun to her head, _duh_ —but the thought of how his presence would slowly choke the life out of her already stifled work environment made her cringe. She turned the television off and put the ice-cream tub back into her little freezer, resigning herself to the fact she'd need to buy at least another dozen pints to compete with the emotional exhaustion his arrest was sure to bring. Harley hadn't been at Arkham the last time he'd been admitted for treatment, but she just knew: work, for the foreseeable future, was going to be hell.

* * *

Grey, foreboding clouds floated above Harley as she locked her car and pocketed the keys. Her breath left her in white puffs, and she shoved her hands in her coat pockets as a meagre defence against the weather. It would be winter in just a few short weeks and Harley was already starting to grumble and moan to herself about the cold. Summer she liked; autumn was a five out of ten—it would rate higher if not for the miserable season that inevitably followed—and spring was equivalent to a hunkalicious Frenchman asking her out for hot chocolate. Winter, though, was like waking up in some type of torture chamber, an old scientist with sweaty palms and a body odour problem proceeding to pluck her toes and ladystache while playing country and western songs on repeat.

The stringy brown grass crunched under Harley's heels as she made her way past the entrance and into the vestibule of Arkham Asylum. Rummaging around in her bag for her ID tag, she listened to the various sounds of the asylum; doors open and closing, shuffling feet, quiet chatter. She couldn't hear if any of the patients had started screaming yet.

Harley traded grim smiles with passing orderlies and nurses, walking quickly to her office. Everything seemed muted this morning; colours were hiding behind ominous shadows and sounds seemed to be muffled behind an itchy wool blanket of anticipation. It may have passed for quiet or peaceful if not for the tension evident in people's gait, the way their body language radiated faint levels of instinctual fear and unease. It was as though they had all become little pigs in a straw house, just waiting for the big bad wolf to come and blow it all down with his wicked laugh.

Harley could feel the despair of the staff soak deep into her skin, and by the time she reached her office, she half wondered if she would ever be capable of smiling again. She walked past the couches placed in the middle of the room; they were a small place of safety reserved for her and her patients. Moving past her small fan heater and hopping somewhat gracelessly over a stack of boxes hidden behind her desk, Harley opened the curtains and gazed out to the brick and stone and general absence of life that seemed to characterize Arkham Asylum.

She had both seen and heard a cornucopia of stories about the Joker, ranging from homicides to bank robberies to blockbuster worthy car chases—he thrived off the attention, in her opinion— but she had hoped the possibility of his being transferred to the asylum would never have affected the staff in such a way. Not so easily.

Letting loose an almighty sigh, Harley sat at her small, albeit lovingly decorated desk and started on a small amount of paperwork and phone calls. A PA announcement interrupted her work, calling all doctors to the second floor staff room. The voice over the system crackled and sputtered in and out. A considerable amount of renovations were sorely needed at Arkham; it was a mystery as to how the place had passed health and safety checks with its decrepit scaffolding and rat-infested grounds. And the heating system was _pathetic_ ; penguins debating the merits of wholesale fish mongering in the middle of Antarctica were probably more toasty than the patients in the asylum. Reluctantly, Harley left her work haven and dragged her feet to the second floor's staff room.

In a stark contrast to the funeral-esque atmosphere in the hallways, the doctors seemed to be buzzing with nervous energy. Very few of them had chosen to sit on the fraying settees scattered about the room, instead opting to pace, lean against walls, or fidget. Aggravated whispers arose from every corner and a light scent of sweat caused Harley to scrunch her nose in revulsion. It was strange and unnerving and a little bit scary to witness smart, rational people act like the building was about to cave in with bullets.

Harley settled herself in the back corner of the room, content to keep herself company. Minutes crawled by, enough for her to start day-dreaming, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when Doctor Leland grabbed her arm. Worry lines marred the woman's swarthy skin.

"Harleen, did you hear?"

Harley gave the woman a pained smile. "Yeah, that is—you're talking about the Joker, right?"

Leland nodded and ran a hand over her face. "I didn't know until I heard it on the radio this morning. I swear, I nearly drove my car right off the bridge I was so shocked."

Harley made a sympathetic noise. She knew Doctor Leland had been employed at Arkham when the Joker was last admitted for treatment; ever the optimist, she tried to find some silver lining. "He might not even be admitted here, don't you think? He's escaped Arkham, what, twice? Three times? Surely the board would consider sending him somewhere else?"

Leland huffed a little. "Are you kidding? Do you know the amount of funding the asylum got last time that guy was in here? Half that amount and my children's children would still be set for life."

 _Funny,_ Harley thought _, I wonder just whose bank account that money's sitting in. Cause it sure ain't being used for the good of the asylum._

Leland continued, "Also, it wouldn't surprise me if the Joker has amassed a big enough fortune to pay off the entire justice system. Arkham's facilities and procedures are familiar to him, so I doubt his _visit_ here will last any longer than a few months." She paused and muttered, "I only hope I'm not one of the casualties."

Harley felt a bit sick. She knew Gotham City was the country's pinnacle of crime, but hadn't considered its overarching influence great enough to reach her workplace; a place meant to help people, a place to battle personal demons and keep them from returning.

"Surely that won't happen, though. I mean, with the funding…" Harley began, her voice faltering at the patronizing look she was receiving. Leland gave her a little pat on the shoulder.

"Well, I suppose we'll just I have to see. I hope you're right, though. Gotham needs that type of hope in its children."

A petulant reply of _"Well, Gotham will have to get its own children—I'm from Brooklyn"_ almost escaped Harley's mouth, but she bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself. Thankfully, another doctor caught Leland's eye, and with a quick 'see you later', she was off.

It wasn't until after a few more minutes of staff gossip that the asylum's director strode through the door and brought everyone to attention. Doctor Jeremiah Arkham was a balding, older man, who gave Harley the heebie-jeebies for reasons she couldn't quite pinpoint. Tall enough to look down his nose at almost everyone, he was the type she could imagine growing more cynical with age; he'd turn into one of those old men that waved his cane angrily at kids from his comfortable porch chair, shouting out ready-made insults and always having a complaint up his sleeve.

"No doubt you're all aware of our soon-to-be newest patient," he said, and then muttered to himself, "although 'new' is not an apt description." He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and straightened his back. His tone was blunt and cold. "None of you will be treating him—the board is instead sending for an acquaintance of mine from abroad to take on the job. Doctor William Monroe will be here in a matter of weeks."

A heavy weight seemed to lift of many of the senior doctors, Harley noticed as she looked around, most of them looking like they'd been given a shot of knee-wobbling relief. Contrastingly, grinding of teeth and crossing of arms seemed like the answering body language of the younger doctors who'd wanted the chance to crack the toughest nut they'd ever get.

Sensing as much, Arkham gave a small, sickening smile. "As is such, I expect you all to continue working to the best of your ability. If any of you have any issues with these expectations, I suggest you get over them quickly. Get back to work." Last to arrive but first to leave, he didn't give any of them a backwards glance on his way out.

 _Right…well, guess it's back to work, then._

Staff members clustered in groups again, talking and gesturing and looking like work was the very last thing they intended to do. Following in her boss's footsteps, she left the room, mind already focused on the patients she would be seeing that day.

* * *

It was during lunch time in the cafeteria when she was approached by Doctor Arkham. Chatting to Jonathan Crane and safe in the knowledge that Doctor Leland had an appointment scheduled (Leland disapproved of their 'lunch dates' mightily), Harley had made herself as comfortable as possible on the plastic bench that would be more suitable as some sort of torture device. Conversations with the professor were always fascinating. He was a quiet man until he became comfortable with you; then he was still a quiet man, but also a sardonic and derisive one.

Harley still hadn't quite figured out why she liked him so much.

They were on a topic they often discussed—a topic that had something, anything and everything to do with his… _problematic_ obsession with fear and phobias—that of psychiatric theories. As was typical, Harley tried to distract him and allow his mind to focus on other things, ideally without him realizing it.

She flattered herself that her hit rate was about sixty percent. She hoped today, what with everything else going on, would be one of the successful days.

"Freudian psychoanalytic theory of ego defence mechanisms verifies that the mind is in a constant state of fear; the subconscious can only stand to repress the anxieties for so long before it succumbs to the inevitable downward spiral of madness," Crane preached at her, having well and truly found his soap box for the afternoon.

Harley scoffed. "That is _not_ what those theories mean to prove, and you know it. Yes, they are coping mechanisms, and yes, they _are_ a defence fuelled by the subconscious, but no, that doesn't mean everyone's sanity is liable to snap at the drop of a hat." She paused for a moment and then clicked her fingers. "Hey, that rhymed! Snap and hat."

He did not look impressed.

Harley spread her hands in front of her and shrugged. "There's a glower placed on your handsome face—oops, did it again."

Nothing.

"Um, talking with you about psychoanalytic theory makes me feel exceptionally…cheery?"

Crane's expression cracked, a miniscule smile forming on his pale lips.

"And now you know that's the truth because I could have used any number of words there; weary, teary, dreary, eerie." She thought back to what she had said, then muttered, "Although that last one doesn't really fit the context here."

"My dear, how you manage to remain optimistic when faced with the degradation of the human mind never ceases to amaze me." There was a dry quality to Crane's words that made Harley roll her eyes. _Slowly getting off topic. Keep it going, Harley._

"If you're just going to insult me," she said good naturedly, "how about we talk about something else." She fished around her mind for a subject that would interest him.

 _How would he react to—_

 _Don't do it._

 _But—_

 _You know it's a bad idea._

 _Oh, come on. It would distract him, and Crane wouldn't talk to anyone about it._

 _He might._

 _He wouldn't. Let me tell him._

Silence.

Harley looked around quickly to ensure no one was paying them any attention. Satisfied by the other occupant's soft murmurs and empty stares, she picked up her cup and spoke quietly into the rim. "Batman caught the Joker yesterday."

She kept her eyes on Crane's face, wanting to analyse every second of his reaction. She thought he might be interested, maybe even ask her for more details on the situation. She was disappointed. Aside from his mild expression of distaste—the kind of expression one pulls when discussing a rectal infection in polite company— his body language and general countenance didn't even twitch. In fact, his response had been so microscopic compared to what she had hoped for, it was like he was a statue. A thin, venomous statue that was apathetic towards almost everything apart from himself and his theories. _Which is fair enough, Harley. He is a patient at a mental institution—or did you forget that?_ Still, Harley tried not to pout at his apparent disinterest.

"Is your look of mild boredom directed towards Batman or the Joker?" She asked.

Chin resting on his steepled fingers, Crane answered, "Both, if you must know. But in this instance, perhaps more so for the clown. Egotistical megalomaniac." The last part was muttered under his breath.

 _Operation 'distract-Crane-from-depressing-fear-thoughts-and-pave-the-road-to-recovery' successful for today!_

Still curious of his opinion and happy with her small victory, she added impulsively, "Yeah, well seems like the stock market's gone up since he was caught." Harley was a liar, liar, pants on fire. She had no idea if the stock market had gone up. She did know, however, that the stock market was on the almost non-existent list of things Crane liked—coming in a close third after 'proving his intelligence in the most patronizing ways possible' and, 'making snide comments'—and would, therefore, not be averse to talking about it with her.

His eyebrows dipped into a deep 'V'.

"It has not," he said, slowly. Testing out the waters to see if she was baiting him.

She nodded. "It has! Remember how you were explaining to me a few weeks ago that when something good happens, people feel safe taking more risks with their investments, or something like that? Well, it looks like that's what's happened."

He squinted at her through the dirty lens of his wire-framed glasses, a smirk hitching up the corner of his mouth.

"My dear, I spent the morning watching news reports on the television in the common room. The stock market has not been affected by the Joker's capture. He may rule the majority of Gotham's underworld but I'm not _quite_ sure he has enough influence to impact the supply and demand of the entire country." Crane snorted, somehow making the action seem cultured. "Nice try, though."

 _Oh, poo. Didn't even think of that._

Harley smiled guiltily. It also explained his less than impressive reaction to her news; apparently, he already knew it. Crane opened his mouth to say something that was most likely insulting, or belittling (she figured she deserved both after trying to trick him— _sooo_ not professional), when his eyes caught on something over her shoulder and his mouth snapped shut.

Harley turned to follow his gaze and was taken aback to see Doctor Arkham striding towards their table. She had an irrational moment of panic that Leland had walked passed, seen her conversing with Crane again, and dobbed her in. Quickly dismissing that idea, Harley straightened her back and slipped her glasses back on, pushing a few stray hairs behind her ear. Feeling like a child about to get scolded by the principal, she cleared her throat.

"Hi, Doctor Arkham."

Awkward pause.

 _There's meant to be something after that, isn't there. Oh, yeah—_ "How are you?"

Crane did one of his stupid, elegant snorts again in the background.

 _Yeah, I know. Silly question._

Arkham looked between Doctor and inmate. "Mm," he grunted. "Coping rather well, considering. I'd like to see you in my office once you've finished your lunch, Doctor Quinzel."

Harley blinked.

"Oh. Okay. Is…everything all right?"

"Yes, yes, fine. I'd just like to have a word with you about a patient."

"Oh. Okay. I'll, uh, I'll just finish and…be right in." Harley winced at her lack of articulation and considered which of her patients he may be referring to, but came up short. Doctor Arkham nodded once and turned, walking out of the cafeteria and leaving Harley to stare after him in confusion. Crane quickly regained her attention.

"That man is disgusting." He spoke softly, through clenched teeth.

Harley ignored him.

Slid her hands down her face.

Rubbed at her eyes.

Whined.

"I don't want to go. Can you stage a breakout so I don't have to go?"

Oh, if looks could kill.

* * *

The oil paintings in Arkham's office resembled mould farm cultivations far more than any type of art. The office smelled musty, like old medical tomes, and Harley had to make a concentrated effort not to sneeze. She half expected a giant dust monster to jump out of the closet.

"Well then," Arkham started once she'd made herself comfortable in the chair across from him. "How are you enjoying your work here, Doctor Quinzel?"

Harley clasped her hands together nervously. "I really love it, actually. It's tough, but rewarding."

"Good, good," he nodded to himself, and wrote something on one of the files in front of him.

She waited but when he didn't say anything else, ventured, "So…Which patient did you want to talk about?" She was tugging on the end of her ponytail, running her fingers through the split ends.

 _Gonna have to get it cut soon._

Arkham removed his glasses, letting them hang from the cord around his neck, and stared at her, his beady eyes burning holes into her face. Harley crossed her arms and swallowed. Noticing her discomfort, Arkham said, "I don't mean to unnerve you, Doctor. It's just been a trying day, as I'm sure you can imagine."

Harley nodded and said, "Yeah, I imagine it's been pretty bad."

"Yes, well," he sighed. "I've been looking at the progress reports you've been documenting. Very good work, if I say so myself."

Harley's face lightened, surprised at the praise. She went to thank him, but he talked over her.

"Many of the male patients seem to react uncharacteristically well towards you. Your relationship with Jonathan Crane, for example, as was evident in the cafeteria. The most he does in his psychiatric sessions is fling not so subtle insults at his doctor. But you," he said, squinting at her, " _you_ he talks to."

Arkham looked at her like she was a rare and exotic bug the world sort after, yet all he saw was a plain old ant or earwig.

 _Although if I had to choose,_ she decided, _I'd rather be an ant. But if I had the option of a ladybug, I'd be one of them. Black and red with cute little polka dots and all that._

Not quite what he wanted to hear, Harley kept her mouth shut. Lifting his chin, Arkham continued his bizarre little speech. "Doctor Quinzel, what I am about to suggest is unheard of, but due to the nature of this situation, the Asylum board and I have decided that some extreme measures are in order. Do I have your word that the following conversation won't leave this room?"

Harley looked around the room, fighting the sudden urge to flee. She shook her head clear, and shifted in her seat.

"Yes," she said. "I won't say anything."

Arkham stood and made his way to a filing cabinet, pulling out a ratty manila folder and handing it to her. Motioning for her to open it, he leaned back in his chair and watched. Harley looked inside, her forehead immediately crumpling at what she saw. Several pictures were scattered on top of a thick pile of paper, all of them of—Harley's head whipped up without her consent, and she stared wide eyed at the man opposite her.

 _Oh, hell no. No way._

Doctor Arkham, ready for her reaction, was quick to explain. "The doctor I was speaking of this morning won't be able to make it here for a number of weeks. That being said, the asylum needs a doctor to treat the Joker in the interim. Legal purposes, you know."

Harley considered feigning confusion, or whipping out a quick, _'would you like me to recommend someone then?'_ but decided against it, as that was so obviously not the case. "Oh," was the only thing she could manage to respond with.

He waited a beat as if expecting her to continue, but when she was no more forthcoming, clasped his hands in front of him again. "I'm asking you to do it."

 _Well,_ _duh_ , she thought. Was he actually serious? He wanted _Harley_ to do it? The Harley that was one of the most junior staff members of the asylum? The Harley who would eat the saddest looking apple out of the fruit bowl first so that it wouldn't feel left out? She still got scared of the dark in her apartment sometimes—what made him think that she could handle Gotham's King of Crime?

"But—but, I just don't—I just," Harley spluttered, then grew frustrated with herself. "But _why_?"

"Very few treatment plans were effective when he was here three years ago. There were several cases in which he managed to convince his doctors that they were making progress when, in reality, he was manipulating them; he would warp them with his little mind games." Arkham's voice was grim but laced with pain, like what he was admitting hurt his pride. "Three of the four psychiatrists working with him throughout the eight months he was here were men; we trialled a female doctor to observe his response—see if it made any difference to his behaviour— but It didn't. Absolutely nothing phased him. And, if anything, it appears that the last couple of years have done nothing but turn him even more volatile. "

Harley turned a wee bit cross-eyed at that.

 _Is this supposed to make me say yes_?

"For this reason, I've decided to try something a little…different. This, Doctor Quinzel, is where you come in." Arkham took a deep breath and held her gaze firmly as he said, "Nobody can deny that you are an attractive young woman. Coupled with the hard work you've put in at this asylum, it presents us with an opportunity we didn't have before. A little experiment, you might say. In the eight months he was here, we learned very little—having been given another chance, I'm willing to go to great lengths to rectify that.

Frankly, Quinzel, I want to see how he reacts to you, study his responses. You can have free reign in your sessions—hypnotherapy, inkblot tests, word association, I don't care. Once Doctor Monroe arrives, the Joker will be taken out of your hands and you won't have to think about him another day in your life."

Doctor Arkham leaned back in his chair and smiled at her, although his expression was more akin to having tasted something a decade past its use by date. Thoughts buzzed inside her skull like wasps, screeching multiple opinions as to watch she should do.

 _How dare he! Just cause I'm a female he thinks he can—_

 _Wack the misogynistic sleazebag with the file—_

 _No! Think of the opportunity he's giving you!_

 _And don't forget, he called you attractive. You can hardly hate someone who calls you—_

 _Shut up! He doesn't even care about the treatment plan; he just wants you to distract him until the other guy arrives._

Harley clung onto the last thought with a death grip. "So, what you're saying is, you want me to distract him until the big guns arrive?" she asked, nausea swirling in her gut. "With what, my _body_?"

Arkham had the decency to look mildly uncomfortable. He clenched his fists on the desk. "I'm not suggesting you do anything indecent—I just want to trial a new approach in the hopes of garnering some results. Just until Doctor Monroe is here, eight weeks at the very most."

She had to stop herself from scoffing at his pretty words.

"Besides," he continued, "this is the opportunity of a life time for you. How many psychiatrists, especially at your age, do you think wouldn't kill for a chance to work with _the Joker_? I know I would have."

His comment caused Harley to pause. "Why _aren't_ you in charge of his case? Surely as head of the Asylum…" the question lingered in the silence between them.

"As head of the asylum, I do not have the time to solely devote myself to a case as significant as the Joker's." He cleared his throat. "And you will, of course, receive a pay rise as a higher ranking staff member."

"How much?" Harley demanded.

The wrinkles surrounding Arkham's eyes deepened. "I beg your pardon?"

She took a deep breath and clasped her hands tightly. "Doctor Arkham, you're asking _me,_ a young city girl—who is only half way through her residency I might add—to take on the Joker's case? To see if he's, what, _heterosexual_?" Hurt and exasperated, she shrugged. "Sir, I may be from Brooklyn, but I've heard the horror stories. Seriously—all I had to do a couple of nights ago was turn on the news to see latest building he was responsible for _blowing up_.

I also know that _that_ violence, more than just the mind games you were talking about, has extended to his previous psychiatrists. So, if that's the 'amazing opportunity' you're talking about, well—" she shrugged, flinging her arms in the air—"I don't really want it."

 _That,_ she thought, _and his justifications are flimsy at best_.

The entire situation was unbelievably peculiar. If the Asylum's board wanted a young pretty thing to use, they could easily send for a doctor more qualified than herself, and in doing so negate all legal possibilities of negligence in the workplace regarding her probable incompetence in the face of such a crucial patient. Perhaps they wanted her as a scapegoat if something went wrong? Or someone others could easily dismiss? She imagined the staff gossip that would circulate if the treatment turned out badly: _'Doctor Quinzel? Oh, I remember her. Such a young thing—and so inexperienced! She didn't know what she was doing.'_

The thought made Harley want to stamp her foot. On someone else's foot. Hard.

"So yeah. That's why I want to know how much." She felt flushed and a little overwhelmed, but knew for a fact that what Arkham was asking her for was unreasonable. Fingers crossed, she hoped there wouldn't be consequences for voicing her opinion so freely.

Doctor Arkham gaze on her was flinty as he gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw. She thought he was about to say something cutting, when he instead let loose a tremendous sigh and started massaging his temples with bony fingers. Reaching into a draw to grab his cheque book, he wrote down a figure and then handed it to Harley. "Here," he muttered.

Chewing the inside of her cheek she took a quick look.

And then quacked like a duck.

At least, that's what it sounded like, and she clapped her hand over her mouth, feeling torn between doing celebratory cartwheels or shoving the cheque down her bra so he couldn't take it back.

 _No—hold your horses, Harley. Think rationally._

Okay, rationally. Rational she could do. She quickly weighed the pros and cons in her mind.

 _Oh, look—lots of money! A pro!_

 _Being belittled by the asylum's board by working as a distraction because I'm blonde and have boobs. Con._

 _It's a once in a life-time opportunity; the Joker is the mob's kingpin. Everyone will be jealous. Pro._

 _No one will be jealous; sworn to secrecy, remember? Oh, and If he ever escapes, he might creep into your apartment at night and kill you. Triple con._

Following that line of thought, Harley asked, "Why is this secret? Because of me? You don't want people to know I'll be his doctor?"

Arkham's reply was quiet, yet blunt. "That is part of the reason, but only a small percentage. I can only tell you the rest if you agree to treat him, I'm afraid."

 _Hm. Bummer._

All that was left, then, was the question of the money. Was it worth it? Harley was a material girl; she loved _stuff_ , loved her clothes, shoes and scented candles. She also loved not being homeless and having enough to afford a gym membership, car, and monthly magazine editions of ' _Bake it Sweet'_.

"The sessions will be monitored at all times," she asked hesitantly, "and I can have a sedative in my pocket on the off chance something goes wrong?" Doctor Arkham just shut his eyes and nodded, as though he had reached his limit—like he was sick of talking to her. Harley bit down hard on the inside of her cheek.

She looked at the cheque. Then looked at the folder sitting harmlessly on her lap.

Cheque.

Folder.

Cheque.

Folder.

 _Cheque._

"Okay," she squeaked, and then cleared her throat. "I'll do it."

He nodded again—without a hint of surprise— and said, "Good. The reason we'd like the Joker's treatment to be undertaken quietly is primarily to keep him from another escape. Eight men, all having had thorough background checks, will be on a constant pair rotation to minimalize the possibility of his escaping through inside help. He has been placed in one of the underground cells. They're so rarely used nowadays that he'd have had no opportunity to become familiar with their layout—"

"What?" Harley interrupted, several things stumping her in that sentence. "'He has been placed'? You mean he's already here?"

Annoyance at her interruption clear in his voice, Arkham explained, "I received a call last night from the police commissioner, informing me that the Joker was being transported here immediately in the hopes of foiling any imminent rescue attempts that might be directed at the police department from his _groupies._ You are one of the few people who know about this, which does mean you will need to sign a non-disclosure agreement.

As I was saying," he said, lips pursing, "we've put him in the underground compartments. Very few workers have the clearance to go down there which only works to our advantage—the police want as few people knowing his whereabouts a possible until it becomes unavoidable."

Harley nodded and slipped a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

"You'll need to have your security access changed, so leave your card with reception for the afternoon. Take his file with you and study it—but do _not_ let it out of your sight. It's all we have on him. Your first session with him will be on first thing on Monday. Do you have any questions?"

So many.

So _many_ questions that she didn't seem capable of voicing right at this moment. And so all she did was gaze stupidly at the folder and smooth out a torn edge.

"No," she answered. "None."

* * *

 **And she's off!**


	2. Chapter 2

Harley met Doctor Arkham in the underground cell that had been appointed as the Joker's session room. Making her way down beneath the asylum had been very cloak and dagger; no one was supposed to know of her newest patient, so she had to either not be seen or think of a legitimate reason she might be going down with an armed guard at her side. She enjoyed it far more than what was appropriate.

Arkham was fidgety and irritated already, so by the time she told him that the session would require the Joker to have the use of his hands, he looked ready to blow a gasket.

"No," he said heatedly, cutting her off mid-sentence. "You told me the expectations you had about your safety just last week."

"I know," Harley continued calmly, "but I need his arms free this session. I have the sedative already in my pocket on the slight chance I'll need it," she said, taking it out and waggling it at him. "And I saw the guard that just escorted me down had a tazer. If the Joker does try something, he won't have time to do any lasting damage."

Arkham started to pace, and then stopped, faced her and said, "If you come into injury because of this decision, it's on you. It will be your responsibility and yours alone, do you understand?"

Oh, she understood. If harm befell her, there'd be no financial help from Arkham Asylum, that was for sure.

"Yes," she answered simply. He stared at her for a moment longer, mouth tight and eyebrows furrowed like furry grey unhappiness slugs. His clinical gaze swept over her, his stare transforming into a look of distaste when he noticed the cherry red stilettos she wore.

 _What?_ She wanted to say, _They're my lucky ones._

His eyes met hers as he said, "Well, if you're that sure, I'll have one of the guards take off the straightjacket once he's _just_ the straightjacket; the handcuffs come off for nothing."

Harley nodded attentively and resisted the urge to strike a victory pose. Arkham gestured towards the room they would be using, and said sardonically, "Make yourself at home. I'm going to go fetch our newest member." He motioned to the two guards leaning against the opposite wall to follow him, and then Harley was left alone with the carnival that was her thoughts.

Harley had been nervous Arkham would refuse her request; she would have. But then again, he seemed to reek of desperation like fish reeked of fish (disgusting), and she wondered how far his leniency would go. Hefting the folder, Harley went to explore the room her and the Joker had been assigned.

It was empty save for a small metal topped table, and a matching pair of metal chairs. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, casting a bright blue-tinted light. It occurred to Harley that if she were to be murdered anywhere in this asylum, this creepy, soul-sucking excuse of an appointment room would probably be it.

Oh, damn. She was about to meet the Joker.

Scratch that, she was about to _treat_ him.

It hadn't quite seemed real until that moment.

Most of her nerves had been focused on whether Arkham would come through, and although Harley had more than enough material for an appointment, she felt like she might as well strip naked so if things turned out like a nightmare, she'd be prepared. She despised 'Naked Harley' nightmares.

Over the past few days she'd studied the few pictures scattered throughout the file, considered his expression, stance and attire. Some were blurry, stills taken from video footage, others of him from his previous time in Arkham, navy track pants and straight jacket included. Out of all of them, Harley had decided, the ones that captured his tattoos were the most telling.

Black swirls of ink created a skull in a jester's hat; his alias, the 'Joker' was written boldly in regal lines across his stomach; a garish grin covered the back of his left hand. Playing cards, smiles, words, a dead bird and a knife pierced bat. Every picture gave her an in to his mind, a facet of his personality. She had wondered if he'd designed them and then decided he probably had. The way he styled himself as an explosion of savage extravagance and character, as though his appearance defined him—it seemed like something an artist would do.

Harley took the seat closest to the door and dropped her notes onto the table with a dull _thud_ , checking her plain gold watch. Almost eleven. She removed her black glasses, took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The thoughts swirling around her head turned into a mantra of _you can do it!_ which ended up evolving into various other asylum patients leading her own personal cheer squad. They were doing a little routine; clapping and somersaulting and whatnot. _Oh, nice backbend kickover, Mr Zsasz!_ She nodded her approval. _Uh, yeah, Crane? You might want to just, er, pull your skirt down a little._ She could feel the furrow between her eyebrows melting away and her mouth pulling up at the corners. _Wow, Mr Dent, you shouldn't wear that shade of purple. It doesn't help either of your complexions._

The amusing picture helped push aside the reservations she felt. Helped her slip on some metaphorical, sequined 'brave girl pants'. She thought of the people throughout the world who were suffering from mental illness, people who were sick but didn't have the means to receive help, to receive treatment and care. Harley had accepted the Joker's case for the money, but it dawned on her that she had the opportunity to help a very sick man. And that was all he was: sick. Not evil, not devil spawn, but someone in the same situation as the people she treated each day—someone she could be kind to.

And besides, the man called himself the 'Joker' of all things; whether in reference to the playing card, or that he enjoyed a good laugh (Arkham Asylum had heard of stranger things), Harley had a fairly good idea that he was a man who appreciated fun.

Whether her idea of fun—the non-violent kind—would be enough to get him to take her seriously was yet to be seen _._

"Having fun to be taken seriously," Harley snorted to herself. "Paradox if ever I heard one."

Voices—or rather a single voice—drifting up from the corridor interrupted her train of thought. She tightened her ponytail and put her glasses back on while she listened.

"What doctor you givin' me this time, old buddy? Cause oh, I gotta _tell_ ya, I have missed our little chits-chats just…so _much_. These last two years with no-one to talk to," he growled, his voice thick and grating. "I am so, so _glad_ to be back."

 _Ho boy_ , Harley thought wryly, _the sarcasm is strong with this one_.

The metal door to the session room opened, revealing a ruddy faced Doctor Arkham. His movements were stiff and controlled, like his temper was on a leash the Joker kept tugging at—a leash that was about to snap. He stepped inside, revealing the kingpin of Gotham's underworld, and the two bulky guards gripping him by the shoulders. Cuffed around the ankles and confined by a canvas straightjacket, the Joker shuffled through the doorway with an exuberance Harley found hard to not to raise an eyebrow at. Her gaze jumped to his face, and what she saw there almost caused her to flinch.

Across the entire right side of his face, from the top of his forehead to the curve of his jaw, was a mottled purple bruise, the sickly colour contrasting starkly with his pale skin. His bottom lip had been split and was now swollen; his mouth was a pale pink, bereft of the crimson lipstick he favoured. Green hair, usually slicked back suavely, fell lank against his temple.

 _It looks like,_ Harley mused _, batman had a bit too much fun playing superhero with him._

Her gaze travelled down his slender body to his slipper clad feet, and she bit the inside of her cheek to hide a smile when she saw his socks. Blue and purple stripy socks, with gold sparkles running through them. Eyes bright with amusement, Harley glanced back up to his face, a sincere smile blossoming across her own when they made eye-contact.

He blinked.

" _Hellooo_ ," he sung, raising his eyebrows. His voice was a deep, rich growl that reminded her of late night jazz, chocolate, and satin bed sheets. Both guards handled him roughly to the awaiting chair and started unbuckling his straightjacket. The Joker threw his head back but hunched forward, so he was looking up at Harley. _Click, click,_ went the opening of each buckle.

"Well, _well_ …place got an upgrade, s'that it?" His face split into a lazy smile, one she recognized from a picture in the file. His eyes were dark as though surrounded by make-up, and his eyelids were heavy, double lidded. Adrenaline pounded through her Harley.

"And so much—so much _younger_ than the last one." His smile grew larger if possible. He groaned, "Oh, I _like_ it. I like it, I like it a lot."

 _Uh…okay. Yep. That's nice._

Harley was more than familiar with the old, _flirt-with-the-inexperienced-blonde-shrink-with-female-genitals-in-order-to-freak-her-out_ tactic, but she didn't expect the Joker to use it. It may have been naïve of her, but she hoped he might have skipped it; bizarre, she knew, but it still made her feel a little deflated. But then Harley _should_ have expected it. He was, perhaps, a decade—or a little less—older than herself, making her the perfect _prey_ for a man his age. The thought disgusted her.

One of the security men unbuckled the final strap and the other went to cover the doorway. Arkham, having remained silent, muttered an angry, "You have an _hour_ ," before scowling at the patient and leaving the room like the hounds of hell were on his tail. The Joker paid no attention, instead throwing off the jacket and stretching his neck out with a pleasure filled moan. Joints popped, tendons bulged and Harley's eyes instantly wandered to his visible skin. His simple white long sleeved shirt was an alarmingly similar colour to his skin; There was no pink to his cheeks, no flush of exertion covering his face. It was wholly unnatural, yet in its own special way, kind of beautiful.

 _Welp_ , she thought, mustering up some enthusiasm, _time to get this party started._

Harley's expression was open and inviting. "My name is Doctor Quinzel. It's a pleasure to meet you–"

"Oh, I _bet_ ," he interrupted loudly.

Harley ignored him, "—and I hope we'll both enjoy our time together." Not how she'd usually introduce herself to a patient, but she didn't think the Joker would appreciate being told she was there to help him. He might already know it, but for her to vocalize it wouldn't warm him to her.

Ah, the male ego. Such a fragile thing.

He exhaled a throaty hum, "So-o-o, Doc _tor_ Quin _-zel._ Ya wanna take a guess what _my_ name is?"

Harley laughed delightedly and shook her head a little, "What, it's not the Joker?"

He raised his eyebrows as though surprised, looked past her shoulder to the security man behind her, and like she had impressed him, mock-whispered, "Didn't think she'd recognize me."

"I certainly did," Harley said, and then added conspiratorially, "But don't worry; nobody else has to know."

The Joker pushed his long sleeves up with manicured hands, then slicked his vivid hair back. His movements were smooth and powerful, eye-catching in their control. Harley could feel his presence weighing down on her and engulfing the entire room, like it was a tangible thing. It was unnerving, to say the least.

"Oh, you sweetie-pie." The words sounded sincere, albeit exaggerated.

She fished out the brand-new pack of playing cards she had bought the previous day and said, "Now, tell me if I'm wrong,"—oh, she had _no_ doubt he'd tell her —"but I thought you might enjoy playing a few card games?" She held up the packet to show him, the warm red of the packaging a beacon in the sterile room. The Joker watched her intently, as though he were a drug addict and she was about to provide his next fix. His stare was penetrating, intensified by the intelligence and anticipation glinting in his eyes. Harley continued, "I thought after we played a few games of something simple, like Snap or Go Fish, you could teach me how to play Poker." She gestured to the card tattoos on his neck. "I presume it's a favourite of yours."

He leaned in, resting his elbows on the metal tabletop and Harley noticed the guard opposite her finger his belt agitatedly. The Joker's stare was hooded and his large grin as mocking as his voice when he said, "Oh _boy_ , is it a favourite of mine."

Harley smiled warmly at him, "Good, I'm glad." She opened the packaging and started shuffling the cards, her gaze flicking to him every couple of seconds. He'd started to make a low, vibrating purr, when she had taken them out, a guttural rumble coming from some untouchable place within him. Harley took note of the sound, filed it away for later, and dealt the cards for a game of Snap.

The Joker slid his pile off the table and caressed them almost lovingly with his thumb. He set the first card down, quickly, and Harley follow suit, eyes not straying from the deck. His hands moved fluidly even when hindered by restraints. It wasn't until five cards in that it occurred to Harley she would have to touch him. It wasn't a big thing, but she felt like smacking herself in the head for not realizing it earlier. For all her smiles and motivational self-talk, those hands of his had willingly killed. They had caused hurt and suffering, and had ripped holes in people's lives. They were hands that were capable of terrifying things. But then again—Harley had always thought anyone capable of anything given the chance. _And remember Harley_ , she reasoned _, he's sick. He can't help it._

Eight cards in and still no pair. Ten cards. Harley glanced up to his face quickly, only to find him solely focused on the cards with an intensity that wasn't typical in playing a game. His breaths were quick, yet deep, and his head was tilting slightly to the side. Concentrating on placing the cards down again, Harley slapped the next one down on the table. It matched the one underneath. Pulse jumping, she smacked her hand over the pile, only to find the Joker's tattoo free hand already there. His skin was cool and smooth but…weird smooth. Like the outer layers of skin that should have been textured with hair and creases had been burnt off or corroded—leaving the back of his hand unnaturally soft.

Sliding his winnings away as though he didn't enjoy the skin contact, he pointed his forefinger at her and said playfully, "Better luck next time, do _c_ -tor." If his tone was meant to irritate her, it did a good job. Harley didn't enjoy losing, a fact she had discovered when she came second, instead of first, in the National Gymnastics Championship, at age fourteen. Beyond upset, she had beaten her trophy into the side of a brick wall until it was mangled beyond recognition and then threw it away. Heavy regret had settled in without her permission the following day, like an unwanted, couch-surfing acquaintance.

Harley was grateful beyond reason that she had matured since then—since the hissy fits, the constant need for praise and perfection—but still…she didn't like it. Losing. However, for the sake of the session's success she would reign in her pride and be the best loser she could possibly be.

Keeping that in mind, she pasted a bland smile on her face and politely said, "Thanks".

The Joker ignored her and straightened his cards neatly, placing one down between them to start the next round.

Four cards. _Snap._

"O-o-h, _again_. Gotta be faster, little lady. Faster, _faster_."

Seven cards. _Snap._

A high giggle. "You _kno-o-ow…_ if you need me to—to slow _down_ , all you gotta do is ask."

Harley gritted her teeth.

Eight cards. _Snap._

They were all in his hand now. He bounced his knees up and down, the chains latched to his ankles to clinking against each other.

"Last one. Beat me." He smiled at her, drawing the words out, "Win, win, _win_."

Thirteen cards. _Snap_.

The Joker growled a thick, dark sound and said in a voice like black velvet, "So _disappointing_. All that hesitating's gonna getcha _hurt_ one day." He glared, jaw hanging slack. "And we don't want no goodwill doctor gettin' hurt now, do we?"

The guards reacted faster to the subtle threat than Harley. Her dark-haired escort drew the tazer from his belt, whereas the one behind her rushed to stand stiffly by her side.

"Hey, hey," the Joker cooed softly, holding his hands up in surrender. "You boys never heard a joke before?"

The two men, tense and alert, did not move.

The Joker sighed. "Me-oh- _my_ , what happened to this place? Seems ol' Jerry-boy hired the fun police. Ya wanna help me out here, Do _c_ tor Quin _zel?_ I'll be a good boy _—_ I'll be your _friend._ C'mon, help me." He clenched his fists and leaned in close. "Help me, help me, _help_ me."

Harley sucked in a small breath and exhaled lightly, chewing the inside of her mouth. Gently she spoke, "You seem to be becoming agitated. If you feel like we need to terminate the session, that's okay; we can do that. But if you'd like to keep playing games with me you'll need to calm down and not make any more jokes that could be taken as threats. Which would you prefer?"

The Joker, shook his head once—a brutal, jerking action—and grunted. "Cards," he muttered to himself. "Cards, or the naughty corner—cards, cards, naughty corner, cards." Silence enveloped the room for a full ten seconds as he stared blankly at the table, his head swaying lightly like there was a breeze moving it from side to side. Harley was about to open her mouth to suggest they postpone when he slammed his hands down and called out in a voice more suited to a boxing ring, "And the _winner_ is…another round o' cards with the lovely _Doctor_ here."

Harley mentally fist bumped herself.

 _Yes!_

She really, _really_ didn't want to have to stop the session over a threat that was hardly even implied; the fact they intervened at such a miniscule thing let her know how extreme they found the danger posed by the man in front of her.

Chuckling at his antics, Harley held her hand out for the cards, "Okay, then. In that case, I demand a rematch." Her eye caught tazer-man's and he seemed to assess the situation before reapplying the weapon to his belt and taking a few steps back. She heard the one behind her do the same.

The Joker shook his finger at her, "Oh, no, no, no. Your mummy never teach you to share? It's _my_ turn." He shuffled the cards, his long, tattooed fingers working magic as they weaved the cards up and down, in and out.

 _I wanna learn that!_

 _Yeah, ask him to teach you. Tell him you'll buy him a present or something if he will._

 _No and no. Shut up, and go away. I'm busy._

Interruptive as it was, the silly conversation with herself had given her an idea.

"Hey," she began, "what do you say we call that one a practice? From now on if you win, I'll get you a prize. Something nice to enjoy. And if I win"—unlikely, she knew— "there are some questions I'd like you to answer for me. Just some simple things."

Harley's questions could jump off a bridge for all she cared; she wanted to test some theories. Would added incentive make his abnormally quick reaction time even more impressive? If she started providing him with small, danger-free trinkets, would he warm to her, depend on her for comforts and familiarities of the outside world? What would he even ask her for? It could uncover information about him they had never even dreamed of. There were so many ways to add this to her advantage. All the Joker had to do was take the bait.

He ceased playing with the cards and hummed a high, inquiring sound.

She explained, "The things you requested would have to be small, harmless and something I could attain easily. Other than that—anything goes, I guess. _If_ you win."

He cocked his head, and swept his tongue across his lips.

"You, pumpkin, have got ya self a _deal."  
_

* * *

Each game played out identical to the first: He would win a hand, then inevitably win the match, all the while spewing mocking little comments in a sickly-sweet voice meant to set her on edge. It was humiliating. By the time three more games had passed, Harley may or may not have been smacking his hand a little harder than necessary on each _snap_.

Having boosted his already bloated ego sky-high—as well as now owing him a comb, purple nail polish, bat patterned boxer shorts and a car magazine—Harley redealt the cards, this time for a game of Go Fish. Reflexes wouldn't win the Joker this game and by the way he was tonguing his front teeth like he was irritated by the sudden change, she could tell he knew it. She had to fight a smirk. The Joker was about to play a humble game of Go Fish with her. Talk about unglamorous.

The Joker may have started out irritated, but the moment their cards were dealt, there was a satisfied little smile on his face. He was probably cheating. Every time he had a card she asked for, the Joker would slip it between his middle and forefinger, and throw it at her lightly, like they were two fat, old men, best friends, completing their weekly ritual of cards at a slimy pub. The idea amused her and he didn't look to think twice when she started throwing hers back to him the same way. His smile flattened abruptly when they finished the first game and counted their pairs.

Thirteen pairs each. A tie.

The Joker's expression turned completely blank for a few seconds—like someone being was equal to him was inconceivable.

Then he grinned, bearing his teeth slow and measured.

It wasn't a good smile; it was sardonic and ruthless as he examined and looked over her face properly, as though they hadn't just spent the past twenty minutes together talking and playing games. His expression made Harley feel as though she was a mouse that he—the snake—had cornered. Like he was going to savour her screams before he bit into her and tore the meat off her bones. _Although snakes eat their prey whole,_ her mind supplied unhelpfully, _…which isn't any better._ Dietary habits aside, she couldn't afford to have the Joker look at her that way. Her temper flared. Gotham's kingpin would _not_ frighten her so easily.

So instead of letting it pass like she should have, instead of looking away in fear like the little girl the Joker no doubt expected her to be, Harley looked him straight in the eyes, smiled, and, in a voice sweet as sugar, said, "Better luck next time… _patient_."

The Joker stopped smiling.

Blinked.

Squinted at her.

And then burst out laughing.

" _Ah-ha. Ha. Ha. Ha."_

She flinched back from the unexpected noise, and he leaned forward to match her. The Joker's laugh was vastly different to his speaking voice; Harley had heard it before, but the grainy television audio she had experienced didn't captured the awful sting in it. There was no joy in the sound that pierced her ears one exhale at a time. He was looking at her while he laughed, and combined with the way he was gravitating himself towards her—head tilted forward, shoulders hunched—it made her realize she was the butt of his joke. Harley could feel her face scrunched up in what could have been panic, but her brain didn't seem capable of switching it to something more serene.

 _I can't believe I just said that._

 _Yeah, but you showed him._

 _Oh, is that what him laughing translates into?_

She sent a silent prayer to Doctor Arkham, a garbled chant akin to: _Please don't fire me, please don't fire me, he started it, please don't fire me._

Harley glanced at the dark-haired guard standing opposite her. He stared straight ahead, looking every bit the able-bodied protector in his black cargo and steel toed boots. His face was bored, his eyes unblinking. The annoying little voices in the back of Harley's mind—the ones that never shut up—wondered if the security guards ever had staring competitions to amuse themselves during their uneventful shifts. Surely, they would have to do something to pass the time. And they had the perfect vantage point standing across from each other like that.

 _I wonder if they got super bored, they'd consider sending Morse code by blinking to each other._

 _Is that even possible?_

 _I dunno. Maybe._

Realizing she had been examining the guard for an abnormally long, awkward amount of time, and that the room was now bathed in silence, Harley returned her attention to her patient. The Joker was grinding his teeth, the muscles of his jaw ticking. He glowered at her. If he reacted this way to a tie, she'd shudder to think what happened when he lost.

That being the case, Harley collected the cards from both sides of the table, holding her breath when she reached for his, imagining him grabbing her wrist and snapping it like a twig. Like he knew exactly what she was thinking, the moment she touched his pile, he swung his arms up to his hair again, throwing his head back and shutting his eyes. Harley jerked her hand back and the guard behind the Joker took a step forward.

The Joker was making that noise again—the throaty hum that settled in the room as background noise like the drone of an organ.

 _He enjoyed that._

He was playing with her. Deciding to ignore what just happened, Harley cleared her throat and said, "So…Poker?" The tightness at the base of her throat had turned her voice husky. Harley had learnt how to play poker in high school, but after the passing of almost a decade, the rules were now as faded in her mind as the name of the lanky teenage boy that had taught her.

The rumble in the mob boss's throat cut off and he opened his eyes slowly, one at a time. He lowered a hand to rest in his lap, the other tapping a finger against his lips. For seconds, he said nothing and just watched her.

"You-ah…got a first name, blondie?"

"Hm," she grunted, and tried to connect how his thought process had ended at that question. She replied dryly, "That depends."

His fists clenched, and he cocked his head. Sucked in a knowing breath. "O-o-h, I get it, I get it. The nice little doctor wants something. Go on, then. Tell ol' uncle Joker what it is."

"It depends," she explained, "on if _you_ have a _real_ one." It was worth a shot. The asylum, the police— hell, probably even Batman had only his alias to use as an official name. Harley almost felt embarrassed on their behalf; the fact a single man could terrorize a city for years and remain an enigma spoke volumes about Gotham's standard of protection.

He drew out a long-suffering sigh, like she had disappointed him.

"So, _poker_ ," he said, clapping his hands loudly and rubbing them together. "Game of the Gods." He leered at her, metal capped teeth on full display. "S'why I'm so good at it."

Harley pinched her arm beneath the table to stop herself rolling her eyes, sulking internally at his sudden topic change.

She was pleased—and somewhat discombobulated— to discover he was a coherent teacher. Entertaining and informative, even if the explanations were occasionally a bit strange. He was expressive and exaggerated in every action; if he was searching for a word in his mind, he would stop and twirl his hand around as if to pluck it out of a hat, which was impressive considering he was still cuffed at the wrists. Several times he cupped his hands atop each other, thumbs resting against his chest like he expected something to be there to hold them up with. It finally clicked when Harley remembered a picture taken of him stepping into a car—a sleek, purple, fancy thing—holding a cane.

He was obviously missing the extra appendage.

Surprise, surprise—he won every round. Having now also earned himself a tube of lipstick—two shades darker than what she was currently wearing, he'd specified— new socks, mint soap and a kazoo (she hadn't quite understood the appeal of that last one), the Joker glowed with self-satisfaction.

 _Ah, well. Almost time to say good-bye._

Thank goodness for that, too. Emotional exhaustion from being around him was beginning to catch up with her. Luckily, Harley's schedule had been cleared for the day which meant she had a free afternoon.

 _O-o-h, what should I do? So many options._

 _Girl, it's been over a week since the last time—you need to hit the gym._

 _Yeah, yeah, I will. Later._

Happy that the appointment was almost finished, that she had all her limbs intact after touching the Joker, and that life seemed to be going her way in general, Harley gathered up the scattered cards and said in bubbly voice, "Thanks for teaching me poker." And then, because she just couldn't resist, she added, "Mr Joker."

Poker and Joker.

It was a rhyming match made in heaven.

The Joker's forehead crinkled as he clucked his tongue at her, "No, no," an agitated shake of his head sent greasy green hair flinging across his forehead and into his eyes. " _No_. Mr Joker was dear ol' dead daddy-o." He raised his brows and pursed his lips, staring expectantly up at her through his lashes as though waiting for her condolences.

"Oh, I'm…sorry to hear that." Harley replied somewhat haltingly, curious to if his 'daddy-o' was indeed dead. "I'll just have to call you Joker, then. Are you…" She went to speak on, but he growled an unsatisfied sound and smacked his body against the table.

"Doc, doc, doc- _tor_ , you don't—"he balled his hand into fists in the air and then sprung them open like he was trying to control an impulse, "you don't _get_ it, do you? I want you to give me a _new_ one." His smile split so wide, she felt his face muscles were worthy of a mental applause. It was a deliberate smile, polished to intimidate and she felt her pulse spike momentarily when he ran his tongue across his teeth, her instincts telling her to look away, be submissive. Lucky for her professional pride, his smile prompted the simultaneous thought of, _does he brush his teeth like a normal person or does he have to buy special polish for the metal parts?_

It wasn't hard to look a person in the eye once you'd imagined them cleaning their teeth with something akin to turtle wax, twice daily, in front of the mirror.

She bit the inside of her cheek in confusion and asked him, "So…a new name for me to call you in our sessions. Like a nickname _?" Is that what he wants? A name that will allow him to disassociate from the situation?_ It was strange. He was a great many things, but he didn't strike her as an avoider.

The Joker cooed a delighted sound in the back of his throat. "O-o-h, a _nickname!_ I _want_ of one. Think, think, think." He hit his hands on the table in time with the words and stared at her, anticipation glinting in his eyes.

A nickname…okay. The kind of nickname she suspected he might want warred with what she considered therapist-to-patient appropriate. It couldn't be anything too affectionate, but needed to include a friendly sense of familiarity. That didn't leave her with much to work with.

She looked him up and down thoughtfully from across the table, noted the way his body swayed gently from side to side almost without his noticing—the way he would fill up the room with his vibrating guttural noises as though trying to erase the silence. She could sense how restless he was in the working of his jaw, the way his tendons popped out against his pale skin and it made her wonder if the constant little actions and noises were a way to stave off some type of anxiety, or if he always acted this way.

"Well," she began, "how about just…Mr J?" It was the best she could come up with at short notice. Yawning loudly, he focused on his nails and slouched back in his seat. _That's a no, then._ She tried again,"Just J, then? Or J.J. for Joker Junior—named after dear old dad, of course." He ignored her, picking at his nailbeds and pursing his lips at what he found. Harley sighed and did the only thing she could think of, although it made her feel immature, a child clamouring for attention. She put aside all professional pretence and spoke the way she would if was home in Brooklyn, carefree as anything and talking with a guy selling artery clogging goodness at a hotdog stand.

"You wanna help me out here, Mistah Jay? I ain't a mind reader, y'know."

She wasn't really expecting a reaction to her accent, but it was a novelty and something to grasp his attention back with. A little bit of fun _._ Having already rejected the nickname she suggested, she wasn't sure he would even take notice of her words. It seemed though, that she had grossly underestimated the power 'something unexpected' had on this man.

The Joker stiffened. Then he groaned, throwing his head back, a pleased and somewhat dazed laugh escaping his throat. His knees started bouncing under the table again, the jangle of his chained feet an applause to her words. "Ah," he moaned, "I _want_ that." He snapped his head back down and watched her, gaze penetrating, a hum reverberating deep in his chest. "Say it again. Say it, say it, say it to me." His words were rapid and husky, soft and fluctuating. Harley blinked. He was trying to sweet-talk her.

Good grief. She was going to develop whiplash from his mood swings.

"Uh, what part?" Harley asked and had to put considerable effort into keeping a straight face instead of sputtering at him in exasperation. He whined at her— _whined_ —and then grunted, hitting his metal bound wrists hard against the table. "Just say it, say it, say it," his breaths were deep and seeped with tension. His shoulders heaved. "Say it, say…" he paused and smiled again as though the memory itself was bliss.

He shut his eyes.

Stretched his neck.

Groaned.

" _Mistah Jay."_

He imitated her accent and tone of voice so well, it could have been her speaking if his voice had been an octave higher. Eyebrows up to her hairline, Harley adjusted her glasses and said hesitantly, "So, uh, Mistah Jay? Is that…" her question was lost to the sound of his purr, like he was a house cat and her voice the sunlight he was basking in.

He rasped, "Again. Again, again, _again_."

Bewildered but trying not to show it, Harley did as she was told, "Mistah Jay. Mistah Jay, are you—are you listening?" She huffed a little at the constant purr running over her words. "Mistah Jay, how's about you look at me when I talk to you so I know you're listening. If I know you're listening, I'll keep talking."

The Joker tilted his head forward and opened his eyes, his face a contrasting blend of annoyance and contemplation. He sucked his chapped lips into his mouth, releasing them with a _pop_. Decision seemingly made, he blew a breath out through his nose, rolled his eyes and in the most petulant tone Harley had ever heard, said, " _Fine._ "

"Thank you," she said.

The Joker raised his eyes to the ceiling and mouthed, ' _thank you'_ to himself before turning his bright gaze back to her expectantly.

"The next time I see you will be on Thursday." Harley had the sudden thought that he might not know it was a Monday, and tacked on, "So, only three sleeps away. Which alsomeans I don't have long to practice my poker skills until the next time we play."

The two guards were moving to restrain the Joker once more, and he snarled quietly when they clicked open the handcuffs, only to shove his arms through the straightjacket. He turned his attention back to her once they'd begun buckling the back of it.

"Three whole sleeps? Hmm, don't be _shy_ , doctor. Come visit me. It gets so— so _lonely_ with just little ol' me. If we're not careful… _careful…_ " he stretched his neck up and crooned, "it might drive me _crazy_." He burst out into the same ear-splitting laughter as before.

 _Sorry buddy,_ Harley thought, cringing _, I think it's a bit late for that._

Firm grip on the Joker, the guards looked to Harley for permission to leave. She nodded and they stood him up, the Joker still cackling to himself.

"See you next time, Mistah Jay." She said to him and his laughter grew louder, more frenzied. The sound lingered for a long time after he was gone.

Slipping her glasses into a pocket and letting her ponytail down, Harley slumped back against her chair and just breathed. The door banged open half way through her third breath and Doctor Arkham, who had been watching a video feed of the appointment through the security cameras, strode into the room.

"What was that?" He looked angry. Harley wondered if she had perhaps indulged the Joker a little too much.

"Uh…" She tried to paste on a bright expression. "Which part?"

"Card games and nicknames? This is the treatment you're prescribing?" Arkham asked flatly and then sighed and muttered, "At least you didn't run out crying like the last female doctor he had."

"Oh?" she asked, her hackles rising. "And the male doctors did much better, did they?"

He shot her a filthy look.

Harley took a deep breath. She was tired, developing an adrenaline headache and all she wanted was to go home and eat junk food. Or bake. Or sleep. Anything really, as long as she was by herself. Picking her battles, she changed the topic.

"When would you like the session report by?"

"I expect both reports for this week by next Monday—" ugh, she _hated_ weekend work—"provided you have anything to report by then."

Harley gaped at him, taken aback at the nastiness in his tone. What did he mean _anything to report?_

"What do you mean?" She asked.

He pushed his thin, wiry glasses, up the bridge of his nose and said, "You will at least _attempt_ to take these sessions seriously, or you'll lose your pay check. That's what I mean. No more card games. Are we clear?"

He…he didn't even realize, did he? The thought didn't even reach that close-minded brain of his. He was too blinded by vanity, opportunity, and prejudice to recognize all the things she had discovered about the Joker in that session. She'd never wanted to smack someone upside the head as badly as she did right now. She wanted to scream at him, kick him in the shins and run off making vulgar gestures and stupid faces. Instead, being the good employee she knew was expected of her, Harley took her glasses off and in a tone like the sugar-coated voice she had used when taunting the Joker said, "Like crystal."

Her employer looked at her suspiciously as though he didn't believe her, but then nodded once and turned on his heel to leave the room. He seemed to do that a lot. Turn his back to people once he'd left them confused, upset or floundering. Probably took pleasure from it, the pompous jerk.

So, no more card games with the Joker. Probably for the best, anyway. If he'd won any more poker matches, she'd probably be living on the streets with the amount of money his winnings would cost her, pay check or no.

 _Ah well,_ Harley thought, only half joking _, if things get bad enough I can always quit and run away to join the circus._

 _Or become a nun._

 _Both?_

Chuckling sadly at her inner monologue, she gathered her things and kicked the door shut behind her on the way out.


	3. Chapter 3

It was two days later—the day before the Joker's next session— that Harley first heard the scuffling outside. It was evening, and she was snuggled up on the couch with a fleece blanket and a nutty chocolate bar, watching reruns of an old sitcom. The first few sounds were barely audible above the television and it wasn't until an add break, devoid of fake applause and humorous disasters, that she hit the mute button and sat up.

It was coming from the side of the house that looked onto a dead-end alley; one of her ground floor apartment windows opened just above a dumpster. Really, the only thing that could improve her already glorious, 'Gotham-esque' view would probably be a few dead bodies. She sincerely hoped that wasn't what was happening.

Placing her unfinished chocolate bar on the coffee table, she walked over to the kitchen counter and hefted herself up next to the sink where she could see out the window.

 _Please don't be a mugging, please don't be drug dealers, please don't be rats._

She looked out, the angle was wrong. Biting the inside of her cheek she deliberated.

 _To check, or not to check?_

It was probably nothing—just her imagination running wild on her, as per usual.

But then again…the noise wasn't stopping.

Making her decision, she jumped off the counter to grab her cell phone and a frying pan—just in case—only to climb back onto the bench and open the small window as quietly as possible. Tentatively, she stuck her head out.

And then hit the back of it on the ledge when the barking started.

She yelped in both shock and pain, stopping to rub her head. A few feet away were two massive shot-haired dogs, sniffing around the large bin. Harley wasn't an expert, but she could recognise them as Dobermans, both black with spots of brown, sleek and muscled. They were real pretty…and scary looking.

 _What on earth are they doing here?_

Harley gulped as they growled, fine hair on the back of her neck raising.

 _They're growling at me—make them stop growling at me!_

 _I haven't even done anything!_

 _Harley, they're dogs, and at the moment you're just a floating head to them. They don't care if you haven't done anything._

Well, presumably they had been looking for food, right? She could fix that! And then hopefully the two of them would stop making such a racket, and leave.

 _Otherwise_ , Harley thought _, I can just call the dog pound tomorrow or something._

Glad no one was being murdered outside her home, she said to the two angry dogs, "Hang on a second, I'll see what I have in my freezer!"

They started barking again when she popped back inside, and she heard someone upstairs yell a _shut up._ Rushing to her freezer, Harley grabbed a few steaks and stuck them in the microwave to defrost.

"Coming, coming, coming," she muttered when the barking didn't stop. The microwave went _ding_ and Harley was back up on the counter, arms and head through the window a second later.

"Here you go! Hope you like ste—"

She shrieked. Apparently, the dogs _did_ like steak, if the way they made a running jump onto the dumpster—the one directly under Harley—was anything to go by. Neither of them made it, their paws scratching on the side of the metal, but it was enough of a shock that she kind of just…threw the meat at them. Like, hit one of them in the face and the other in the leg, threw it at them. They didn't seem to care though, both running for the food and devouring it in ravenous, tearing bites. She watched them as they ate, heart pounding.

After both had finished snapping at each other for the last bite, the slightly bigger one curled up against the wall while the smaller, wirier one gave her a half-hearted growl and then went to lap at a puddle. Harley eyed that one grumpily and huffed.

"Rude," she muttered. And then louder, "You're welcome."

They both ignored her.

Sighing to herself, she went back inside and put the silly frying pan away. Determined to ignore any other sounds that came from outside (steak didn't grow on trees after all), Harley settled back on the couch and tried not to think about what the following day would bring.

* * *

"Whatcha got there, _Doctor_?"

The two guards, different men from last time, released the Joker from the straightjacket's hold. He rolled his shoulders slowly one at a time, stretching his neck. Harley placed her glasses on the table, grabbed the white plastic bag to which he was referring, and set it in front of him.

"Your hard earned winnings, Mistah Jay."

The Joker made a high sound in the back of his throat, raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips in a look that said, _what, really? For me?_ Harley raised an eyebrow.

"Go on. Take a look."

Gotham's Clown Prince of Crime did as he was told, and planted his attention firmly on his bag of goodies. He rummaged around inside it, plastic to rustling loudly, and then started to mutter, low and incomprehensible. He plucked out the kazoo he had asked for, and, after sparing it a quick, uninterested glance, threw it over his shoulder. Harley bit the inside of her cheek to stop her protest.

 _Dude, that cost me, like, five bucks_. _At least pretend to like it._

The mint soap came out next, to which he took a whiff and then discarded in a similar fashion. Back into the bag went the Joker's slender, tattooed hands, and Harley realized this would probably be a good time to tell him.

"So—and I am sorry about this—"she said chewing on the inside of her cheek, "but I didn't end up getting you the lipstick or the nail polish. Or the shorts."

The Joker froze.

"Yet," she tacked on, "haven't gotten them _yet_. Y'see, I just couldn't seem to find the right colours, and then with the boxer shorts…" Harley trailed off, feeling silly for trying to justify herself to the _Joker_ about stupid _shorts,_ whilst simultaneously feeling guilty for not keeping up her end of the bargain. She hadn't been one hundred percent sure, but when she couldn't find items that perfectly matched the description of what he wanted at the store, she figured playing it safe—not wasting money on things he wouldn't like—would be best.

Her excuse still hanging in the air, Harley watched the Joker, a frown forming when he just kept staring into the bag. After a few seconds saturated with tension, a smile blossomed on his face and a guttural hum, full of pleasure, escaped him.

" _O-o-h_ ," he drew out, voice heated like melted chocolate. Slowly, he brought his pretty, _pretty_ white hands out. Held loosely, yet tenderly in his fingers was the small black comb she had found in the bottom drawer of her bedside table two nights previously. Harley had only used it a couple of times, opting more for a soft bristled brush rather than the hard teeth of the comb, but seeing him caress the four-inch piece of plastic made her wonder if she had been missing out on something. She was hard struck coming up with any other reason her patient's face was one of such contentment.

The Joker tipped his head back and languidly ran the comb through his striking hair, smoothing the knotted locks down and slicking it back. His eyes slipped shut, smile wide. He inhaled deeply, held the air in for a moment and then purred, "Good _girl_." His tone was rich and lovely, and Harley blinked dazedly, not sure whether to give him sass for addressing his _doctor_ that way, or to get on her knees and beg him to say it again.

 _Oh, don't you dare._

 _No, no, I won't, but just…wow. Hell of a voice he's got there._

"Uh..." Harley stammered, giving the guard opposite her a flustered glance. The middle-aged man was stocky, not particularly tall, and had closely cropped blond hair. His face was also entirely blank, to which Harley was grateful.

"You, uh—you like it, huh?"

The Joker's blinked a couple of times, as though awakening from a deep sleep.

" _Mmm_ ," he hummed, "So very _good_ to me.

Not having the faintest idea of how to respond, Harley made a sound in the back of her throat that was meant to sound noncommittal, but came out slightly choked.

 _What the hell? The stupid file never said he was prone to this type of behaviour!_

 _If Arkham turns out to be right about the whole, 'ridiculously-dangerous-criminally-insane-man-opening-up-to-his-young-female-doctor,' thing, I will seriously eat my lucky red shoes._

 _Or maybe this is him being genuinely grateful. No scratch that, it's not likely._

 _Purposefully trying to make me uncomfortable, then. We'll go with that._

Straightening her shoulders, Harley picked out the final items in the bag, a car magazine which she set to the side, and a pair of bright green socks with yellow polka dots. Clearing her throat quietly, she held them out and said, "Don't forget these. They were the most interesting pair I could find."

He stretched his neck forward, waggling his fingers at her to hand them over. The Joker separated the socks and curled them inside-out, properly inspecting them as a tailor would a newly finished suit. Satisfied, he reached down to his shackled feet, ripped off the socks he was already wearing, and replaced them with the new ones. Dangling the dirty ones in front of her with one hand, and pointing a finger at her with the other, he said, completely serious, "Delicates. Eight minutes on-ah—" he looked around the room, rolling his head quickly, thinking of the term, "on _warm._ Ya got that, girlie? You _capisce_?"

Oh, no way. "Well I ain't your laundry girl, Mistah Jay, but I'll let one of the cleaning staff know," Harley said, grasping the socks gingerly between her thumb and forefinger.

"A-a-h, _no."_ He snatched the socks back. "You," he muttered, "you, you, _you_ clean them." The Joker raised his eyebrows and said clearly, "Don't want no cleaner cooties stickin' on them."

Harley cocked her head and played along. "So, you'd prefer doctor cooties instead? I promise you, they're far more dangerous than cleaner cooties."

He made a high, surprised sound and peered at her thoughtfully. "Doctor, doctor, do _c_ -tor…" he trailed off quietly, tugging at the socks. "Doctor Quin- _zel._ She ain't gotno _cooties._ Onlycards _._ Cards she winswith _._ "

 _He's still sore about that._

 _Yeah, sore about his hundred to one winning streak._

 _Oh, poor thing._

"As kind as it is to try and make me feel better _, Mistah Jay—"_ man, it was tongue twisting to switch accents suddenly _—"_ it was just a tie, remember?" And then, although she already knew the answer, she asked, "Does that bother you? That it was a draw?"

He hit his metal bound wrists hard on the table, the annoyance in his bright blue eyes about to burn holes through her. She continued, although saying it out loud made her want to bite her tongue off, "Cause y'know, I didn't actually _win_ any of them. That was all you."

"Hmm," he hummed, still glowering. "Doncha know, Quinny? Nobody likes a _suck_ - _up_." He smacked his lips together, making a _pop_.

She replaced her glasses and chuckled, the laugh self-mocking, "Very true. But anyway, no cards for us today. I've got something else in mind."

"Mmm," he sounded, mood changing from annoyed to interested. "What? What you got in that squishy, big brain of yours?"

Deciding to take his words as an intelligence compliment and not a way of saying her head was big, Harley grabbed the Joker's discarded socks, stuck them securely in her lab coat pocket and picked up her folder. "Today's activity is…" Harley paused. The Joker would appreciate a moment of dramatics.

He tapped his fingers on the table and muttered, "Today, today, _today,_ sometime _today,_ honey bunch _._ "

With a flourish, she presented her folder and, with entirely faked enthusiasm announced, "An inkblot test!"

The Joker's face went blank.

 _Argh. I've lost him._

Harley could sympathise; she didn't particularly want to do this either. But Arkham was the boss, and when he told her to do something, she did it. Well…most of the time. And inkblot tests had their place in the psychiatric world of personality testing, but for a case as delicate as the Joker's, she was worried this examination—the first thing she had done so far that asserted her authority as his doctor—would unravel the small, yet valuable progress she had made with him. Harley had no idea what she would do if the test wound up insulting him somehow. Probably try to bribe him with more stuff.

"I know, I know," she reassured, "it's a bit of a drag, but that's why I figured we could do it together. You tell me what you see, I'll you tell what I see. We could make this fun."

Leaning forward, the Joker raised his brows and asked her in an impressively level tone, "Ol' Jerry boy put you up to this, did he?"

 _Uh—what do I say?_

 _Say yes._

 _No, just smile or something!_

 _Fake a swoon—_

 _Shut it! Just be cool, like ice. You're an ice cube. Go on, be cool._

"Well," she smiled and gave a little half shrug, "he _is_ my employer."

The Joker grunted and rolled his eyes. He reached for the little black comb and ran his thumb down its teeth. Harley sighed. She had to fix this. Shoving her closed fists under her chin, she hunched over the first picture. So far, unless he appeared deep in thought and further away from reality than Harley could reach, the Joker seemed to need constant stimulation. His little noises and gestures were endless, and she was willing to bet that with other people present in the room and nothing to concentrate on, he would soon become agitated and desperate enough to talk to her again.

He didn't disappoint.

It took almost a full minute of silence—in which Harley decided the black and grey symmetrically inked picture looked like some kind of demon sheep—but he finally slammed the comb on the metal table top and snatched the inked paper from under her nose. He squinted at it, looking mildly appeased when he said, "Man's got no head."

Harley craned her neck to see which part he was looking at. "Huh?"

He stabbed his finger at the top of the page, and then looked her in the eye.

"Must have met a _girl_."

Harley blinked. His words—no wait, his _joke_ —replayed in her mind.

 _Lost his head over a girl._

 _Oh wow, that's bad. That's like,_ _ **dad**_ _joke bad._

Harley snorted, and then clapped her hand over her mouth in embarrassment, but the Joker seemed to enjoy her reaction. He brought his left hand up to cover his mouth, the large tattooed smile on the back of it comical, but twisted to look cruel instead of happy.

" _Ha. Ha. Ha."_ He laughed loud and slow, the jabbing exhales such a contrast when compared to his normal cadence.

The blonde cleared her throat, and ventured, "So, you see a headless man?" She peered at the test paper. She could see it, she supposed. Instead of the middle of an evil sheep's face, the centremost black shadow, longer at the bottom than the top (hence the headless appearance), was the body of a man. What she had seen as ears appeared to be wings, or perhaps a cape flaring out behind him.

"Well, what about this next one?" She asked, placing the following piece of paper in front of them.

He raised his brows and tapped his chin. "O-o-h, I don't _know,_ doc _."_ He glided his middle finger over the page. "That's a _spaceship_ that is."

"Really?" She looked again.

 _Oh yeah, I see it._

 _So he was looking at the white part?_

"I saw two bears high-fiving each other. See here? This is their hands clapping together." She pointed them out.

"Hmm," he hummed, "I think you're, pulling my _ankle_ , doc. You better stop pulling. Better _Stop_."

Uh…his ankle?

 _Does he mean leg?_

 _Hell if I know. He seems a little out of it today._

Harley said, "No, I promise I'm not pulling your, uh, ankle. Isn't it interesting that we both see different things? I can see the spaceship, though. Down the middle there, right?" The Joker's answer was a chilling smile. She swallowed.

 _Right,_ she thought, _on to the next one._

They looked at the pictures for a while, Harley not entirely sure of the sincerity in his answers, but happy he was doing it with her all the same.

Where she saw two ladies, he saw two monkeys.

Where she saw a dinosaur, he saw a samurai helmet.

Where she saw a moth, he saw a bat.

It pleased her though, that after he said it, she could make the image that he saw out almost every time. The Joker on the other hand, thought she was making things up half the time and had started to give her veiled—but kind of playful—threats by the end of it. These particular guards didn't seem to care as much as the previous two, but Harley almost wondered if these little threats were his way of _teasing_ her for what she saw.

"A _moth?"_ He exclaimed on the last one. "Y'know, I knew a guy once. Big, _strong,_ hunky-dory fella—real-ah, real _popular_ , know what I'm saying? Well, one day…" He trailed off, head swaying from side to side. " _One day,_ this big, strong fella, thought he was just a teensy bit _too_ strong. So y'know what I did, cupcake?" His feet bounced under the table. "What? What did I do?"

 _I have a feeling I don't want to know._

"Did you…uh…" She was having trouble coming up with a non-violent answer. "No, I have no idea. What did you do?"

"Gee, use your _imagination_ , girl," he chastised. "The _boys_ and I stuck him in a wood chipper and set it to human smoothie."

 _Oh. Oh, gross._

"Is that so?" Harley choked out. "And what did that have to do with the moth?"

He sighed loudly, and threw his arms on the table. " _Because,_ do _c_ -tor," he drawled, "what, what, _what_ is going through a moth's mind when it flies into a car windshield?"

Silence.

"Its _abdomen_." His cold, controlled laughter sailed through the room.

"And you're the car in that situation, I take it?" She asked when he had calmed down.

He pointed his index finger at her, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and bared his teeth. "And don't. You. _Forget it._ "

Harley quickly changed the topic after that.

It wasn't much later—perhaps a few minutes or so—that Harley was watching him flick through the car magazine she had bought, listening to him mutter criticisms about paint jobs and hub caps. "Stupid," he muttered, "ain't _nobody_ gonna want the gold and orange combo. The guy's a _lunatic_. Lookie here, all he says is _blah-blah-blah_."

He seemed rather content to just talk to himself. It was actually kind of cute.

It was also a nice break for them both; the session was over half-way over by now, and they both deserved a five-minute break. Harley took her glasses off and laid them on the table, let her hair free of its band and ran her hands through it, trying to quell the headache that was starting to form. The scent of her coconut shampoo settled around her and she breathed it in, closing her eyes and massaging her neck lightly.

Perhaps those two dogs would be back outside her apartment that night, barking at her for food and just being a general nuisance. Poor things—and their poor owners, because really, they were far too clean and healthy to be strays.

 _If they're still there_ , she resolved, _I'll call around the dog places, see if any Doberman have been reported missing._

 _Not that I'd blame the owners if they'd kicked the dogs out; the rude things probably deserved it._

 _Yeah, a whole pack of steaks gone, and no thank you or nothing._

 _Harley,_ she reminded herself, _they're dogs. Now stop neglecting your patient._

 _Right-io!_

Harley opened her eyes expecting to see the Joker still pouring over the magazine, mumbling some insults and ignoring her presence entirely. Instead what she found was him glaring at her like she had just insulted his hair. The Joker's teeth were bared, his shoulders heaving, and Harley glanced at the guard opposite her for some clue of what had happened. His face remained stoic.

"Are you okay?" She ventured hesitantly. The Joker ignored her, his icy gaze becoming more intense and unbearable by the second. "Mistah Jay?"

The Joker shook his head violently and grunted, flexing his fingers and shifting in his chair.

"Mistah Jay, what's—"

He slammed his arms down on the table and snarled at her, the sound guttural and desperate. Harley flinched. The guard fingered his belt. But the Joker did nothing. He just continued to stare, clenching his teeth and looking mightily irate—and slightly confused, Harley noted with some degree of surprise. Like he himself didn't understand where this change of temperament had come from. Rather than dig herself deeper into the grave he seemed to have prepared for her, she sat in silence and waited for him to speak.

He said nothing.

A deep moan emanated from his throat and turned into a steady drone as he focused back on his magazine.

Harley waited a minute.

Two.

Three.

"Mistah Jay?"

He ignored her.

"Mistah Jay? What's wrong? What happened?"

He turned the page.

"Mistah Jay? _Joker_. _Talk_ to me, _please."_

He ignored her.

As he did for the rest of the session until Harley had the good sense to cut it short. She was about to beat him over the head with his stupid magazine, and so thought it a good idea to play it safe; she didn't want to die today.

"Well," she said to him at last, although she might have been talking to a brick wall for all her efforts, "guess I'll see you next week, Mistah Jay." The young doctor watched him, ready for any response, looking for _any_ acknowledgement.

He turned another page.

 _Damn magazine,_ she thought, _shouldn't have given it to him._

Harley placed her glasses back on and turned to the guards. "I'll leave first today. He's welcome to take all this stuff back to his cell, just…keep an eye on him."

Both nodded, and Harley, the weight of his dirty socks heavy in her pocket, left without another word. Thankfully Arkham wasn't hanging around to ambush her, unlike the last time. She wasn't sure what she would do if he had been—probably spit on him or burst into tears with her current mood. She was confused and agitated, and if she had to admit it, slightly offended.

She had done _nothing_ to him and yet he… _ugh_.

 _Mental asylum,_ she had to remind herself, _you work at a mental asylum._

Sulking to herself, the young doctor made her way up to the cafeteria where she would be able to find some comfort in greasy food.

* * *

"Hi Crane," Harley said glumly, staring into space. The cafeteria was relatively empty, only a few patients scattered at the various tables. The walls of what was perhaps the largest room in the asylum were a stark white, with cracks running through them, reaching out like spindly fingers. The smells that wafted through the room ranged from sugary donuts to unwashed bodies, making it a bit of a hit and miss place to sit and eat at; beggars though—or in this case, the criminally insane— couldn't be choosers.

The thin man who had come to join her raised an apathetic eyebrow and drawled, "Please, my dear. Your enthusiasm is overwhelming."

She winced. "Sorry, sorry. Just had a long day is all."

Crane picked up his plastic fork and neatly speared through a potato. "Well, I've had a surprising acceptable day—still being incarcerated in this farce of an asylum like an animal notwithstanding."

"Oh, good." Harley smiled, sucking her soup spoon. "That makes one of us. What was good about it?"

"I had a visitor." The words were said with a high degree of smugness.

"No," Harley gasped, "really?" Crane hadn't had a visitor for at least…well, _never_ as far as Harley knew.

"Yes." Crane frowned at her. "As hard as it may be for you to believe, apparently."

"That's fantastic! Who was it? Was it a _girl_?" she asked cheekily.

He glowered at her before admitting, "It was an old student of mine come to…pay his dues. It was of little consequence."

She beamed at him. "Well, I'm really happy for you."

He adjusted his wire-framed glasses. "And what made your day so terrible? Is the puppet man causing you grief again?"

"No. Doctor Leland took over his case a couple of weeks ago."—thank goodness, because that Scarface doll _seriously_ freaked her out—"No, it was just…something else."

"Well?" He prompted, when she didn't continue. "Don't leave me in suspense. I'm so starved of intelligent conversation, I may soon perish from a severe lack of stimulation."

Harley's smile was weak. "Was there a compliment in there somewhere for me? Are you feeling okay?"

"Mm," he grunted, "make sure not to mention it again, or I'll take it back."

Harley laughed, then rubbed her eyes. "I have a new patient," she started, "somewhat of a special case. I guess I'm just feeling somewhat out of my league is all."

Crane cocked his head. "Diagnosis?"

 _Harley, girl, what are you doing?_

 _You shouldn't share this stuff with anyone, let alone a patient._

 _Yeah, but Crane…he might have some ideas._

She sighed, and rubbed her arm. "It's too early to be sure. Egomania. Schizotypal personality disorder without the social anxiety, possibly intermittent explosive disorder. It's hard to say in such a controlled environment, but more than that it's…I don't know, it's just strange." Ignoring the voices in her head currently yelling at her to shut her mouth she confided, "This guy—this _patient_ , he's not…not normal." And before the professor of psychiatry could snidely remind her where she worked, she explained, "I played some card games with him in our first session, right? Tested his reaction time, saw how he handled losing, tried to establish how much control he could subconsciously maintain, you get me?"

"I understand, yes," he said dryly.

"Yeah, well, I just had the second session with him, and he managed to unravel what little I thought I understood. I mean, he was the same at first; exaggerated, quick, and like what you said—in an almost constant need of _stimulation._ We looked at some inkblot tests together and he seemed happy enough. Then he just…" Harley threw her arms in the air, "I don't know, he just shut down. It was _weird_."

"He shut down? You mean he lost interest?"

"I guess that could have been it. We were having a break—he was looking a magazine and I was just sitting there and he clammed up. He's not the type to just _clam up_. It was so _frustrating_."

"Inkblot tests," Crane muttered scathingly. "Useless."

Harley gave him a look. _Not the point._

Crane placed his fork down. "It seems to me, _Harleen_ , that you have a mild case of delusions on your hands."

"One," she said, holding up a finger, "do _not_ call me Harleen _._ And two, what do you mean delusions? That has nothing to do with what I've been saying."

Crane pursed his lips at her. "I'm embarrassed for you that I need to explain it."

"What?"

"It's you. You think you can understand this person's mind and compulsions in two sessions? I thought you knew better than that, _Harleen_."

Harley sputtered for an answer. What was this? It felt like her and Crane had swapped places, like he was the resident doctor and she the one in need of help.

 _Bizarre._

 _Maybe the staff put something in the water._

But, pushing her wounded pride aside, Harley focused on Crane's words. It was true; she may have been alert and a little nervous when treating the Joker, but still too cocky. _Delusional_ , as Crane so kindly put it, to try and understand this man by reading his file and talking to him for two hours. Crane was right. It _was_ embarrassing.

"You're right," she said. "But really, I'm not making this up—this man is…" she searched for the right word. "He's scary. Unpredictable. But it's not because he's mentally ill—no, well, it _is_ …" Harley huffed, frustrated with herself. "He's _driven_ , Crane, and is inexplicably fascinating. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if he convinced _me_ to turn half insane one day, and that doesn't sit well with me."

"Oh, it's not that bad," Crane said, "one gets used to it, you know."

Harley laughed. "Right. sorry."

He rolled his eyes dismissively. "Prognosis?" He asked.

"For him or for me?"

"Both, I suppose."

Harley considered and then admitted, "Uh, not good."

"Treatment plan?"

"I'm going to the gym. And then I'm going to eat a litre of ice-cream."

Crane smiled, a rare, genuine smile. His eyes lit up and Harley caught a glimpse of slightly crooked teeth. He then ruined it by saying, "Did you know eating gratuitous amounts of unhealthy food is a coping mechanism for mild stress and fear generating situations?"

* * *

 **Thank so much for reading!** **You're all gems.**


	4. Chapter 4

"Doctor Monroe will be here by the end of next week," said Arkham. He was sporting a newly grown moustache that looked more like a furry animal—one liable to spring alive and sniff around her bag for some lunch.

Harley blinked, taken aback.

Doctor Arkham had caught up with her in the corridor, minutes before her next appointment with the Joker. She had suspected it may have been about her progress reports; maybe he wanted them changed or set out a different way. But she hadn't at all expected this.

"Oh," she breathed out. "I…didn't think he would be here so soon."

 _I've only seen him twice._

 _I thought the guy would take longer._

 _Was there even a point to_ _me_ _?_

"Yes, well, it's no surprise he would be eager to get to work here, considering the renown of both this asylum and his awaiting patient."

"Uh…right." That's not quite what she meant. "Where's he transferring from, anyway?"

"Interstate," he said simply, voice hard as steel. Crotchety old man didn't seem to like her questions. "As is the situation, I expect you to prepare the Joker for his change in doctor."

"Sir," Harley began, "I just don't know if this sudden change is the best course of action. The Joker seems stable enough at the moment—we haven't experienced any violent outbursts or anything. Changing his doctor could make him lash out."

Arkham stiffened. "Is this, Doctor Quinzel, about the well-being of your patient, or about you being so easily replaced?"

Harley's jaw slackened. "Excuse me?"

"If the former, I applaud your commitment, but warn you not to become so emotionally attached. If the latter..." Harley just stood there, gaping like an idiot. "You were told what was expected of you; whether the job lasted one week or ten weeks was of no consequence. You signed the agreement. Your _pay cheque_ will not suffer from it and once Doctor Monroe is settled, you may add the Joker's treatment to your resume."

Harley blinked rapidly, trying to cool the anger brewing in her chest and fighting off the tears threatening to spill over. He thought she was like that? That she wanted more money, more attention? Arkham was talking to her like she was expendable, like the time she had spent with the Joker meant _nothing_ and that this other stupid doctor would come and fix _her_ patient with a flick of his wrist. It was insulting and hurtful and in that moment, Harley had never disliked a person more in her entire life than her employer.

Trying to calm the storm of emotions, she ground out, "I only want what's best for the patient, Doctor Arkham. I was just trying to help."

"Thank you, Quinzel, but no need for you to trouble yourself with _help_ in future." He glanced at his watch. "I believe you have an important session shortly. Best go prepare for it, don't you think?" He waved a hand at her, like she was a servant to be dismissed, turned on his heel and walked away. Harley squared her shoulders and walked to the door of the appointment room, shutting it tightly behind her. And, before she could think better of it, she turned back around and made the most vulgar gesture she knew how.

* * *

If someone told Harley a week ago that she would be sitting down, painting the Joker's nails a shade of _Plum Pudding_ , she would have promptly walked out of the conversation; there'd be no use in arguing with someone so obviously insane (she should know). Yet there she was, twenty minutes into their third treatment session and six nails into the second coat. Somehow, they had gotten onto the topic of 'advantages in doing business with drug-lords and mercenaries', to which he _insisted_ he was neither, which made Harley raise a disbelieving eyebrow. The Joker kept moving his hands (as he seemed prone to do whenever he spoke), making little gestures and ruining the nails she had painted, meaning she'd have to restart them all over again.

The lipstick Harley had managed to procure for him had been the last in stock, and she had swiped it up faster than she could blink, breathing a heated, _'Yes!'_ and wondering if it had been so hard to find because the Joker had previously bought out the entire shelf. It wouldn't surprise her. He had grinned like a cat when he saw it, dragging it messily across his dry lips and giggling delightedly. Harley hadn't had any luck yet with finding the bat patterned boxer shorts. But her patient seemed more receptive today, like he was actually invested in the conversation—and not just to hear himself speak.

There had been no talk of his sudden mood swing from the previous appointment; he'd walked into the room, happiest she'd yet seem him, humming a lazy tune under his breath and smiling a dazed smile. Not wanting a repeat of his silence—her temper was wild enough after the little meeting with Arkham, that she may actually have shrieked at the Joker if he ignored her again—Harley didn't bring it up.

Feeling resentful and completely used, the young woman had put aside the word association activity she had prepared for the day, in favour of idle conversation. If Arkham wasn't going to appreciate her hard work, she may as well just enjoy herself.

 _I bet he didn't even looked at my reports_ , she thought heatedly.

 _Yeah, and apparently I won't need to bother writing any more._

The thought made her huff.

As the Joker gossiped animatedly about the most irritating of his clientele, (he could say anything he liked about them, her patient had informed her, because he was the king—or something amusingly vain like that) Harley ran her fingers idly through the ends of her ponytail, feeling the dead ends. When he saw what she was doing, the Joker's mouth shut with a click, his glazed eyes following the movement intently, his mouth parting slightly.

Noticing his attention and happy to have a reprieve from talking about some mob boss's toe fungal, she held up the ends and gave a little shrug. "I'm thinking it's time for a haircut. Any suggestions?" His bright eyes flickered to hers before focusing back on her hands. He leaned forward, and swiped his tongue over red smothered lips.

"Well _,"_ he drawled, " _I've_ always been partial to a bit of colour." He ran his hands through his vivid hair, trailing small clumps of purple paint from his nails through it.

Harley smiled and waggled her eyebrows. "A bit of green then, do you think? We could match."

Her patient's forehead bunched up as he seemed to consider the idea. "Oh, no, no, _no_. Sweet girl like you? No, you need the—the _cotton candy_. You need the _bubble_ -gum."

"Oh, so…a nice pink? That could be fun." If she wanted to get fired.

"Pink, pink, pink," he muttered, staring fixatedly at her hair, "and blue. Pink and blue, like little girls and boys and babies." Their eyes met again across the table and his hand came up to cover his mouth, giving her another glimpse of the smile that lived there.

" _Ha. Ha. Ah-haa."_

Harley's look was indulgent. She was beginning to like the quirk of him laughing at his own jokes… even if they weren't what people would typically classify as funny. She had tried to analyse what his normal laughter versus what his 'grinning hand' laughter meant, and hadn't had much luck. One _could_ have been when he was genuinely amused; the other, him trying to make a statement. Maybe it was because he knew how unsettling the tattooed on his hand could be. Or maybe It meant nothing. In a profession such as hers, it was hard to know if one was overanalysing things too much.

Not that she would be analysing him for much longer.

Heaving another sigh, Harley rubbed the back of her neck nervously. "I have some news, Mistah Jay."

The Joker's brows rose, "Some _news_?" He squinted at her, looked over her face, and took in her expression. " _O-o-h_ , and it's _bad_ news, ain't it, honey-pie. Ya got this sad little—little _crease_ between your baby blues. Tell ol' Uncle Jay what the trouble is, now." The Joker shook his head savagely, just once, and muttered, "Uncle. Uncle, no, _not_ uncle. I ain't no Quin- _zel_ 's uncle."

"Well," she began. How to break it to him? He probably wouldn't care. It was probably only _her_ that cared. She didn't let herself contemplate why the thought left a wounded feeling behind.

"Starting from next week, you're going to be having a new doctor. I was only ever temporary, you see, so…." Harley trailed off. The Joker stared at her blankly, another look that was becoming familiar. Just stared, like what she had said didn't compute, or she was speaking a foreign language. Slowly, rigidly, he worked his jaw. Then he spoke.

"Are you-uh…trying to tell me a joke?" He tongued his metal capped teeth and looked down his nose at her. Then he growled in a voice so low and foreign, Harley flinched. _"Cause it ain't a very good one."_

Harley's words were more timid than she liked when she replied, "It's not a joke. I'm sorry, I didn't tell you from the start; I didn't think they would replace me so quickly." The joker didn't seem to hear a word she said. His breathing was laboured, causing his muscled chest and shoulders to heave. He ran his fingers agitatedly through his hair again, a wild look in his eyes.

Again, he stared at her.

Stared at her like he hated her. Like she had kicked his puppy, flushed his goldfish down the toilet and set his favourite car on fire. And Harley, for the life of her, was struck speechless.

He flexed his fingers and stretched his neck out to the side, muscle stretching and tendons bulging. When Harley opened her mouth to explain, apologize, _anything_ —he snapped his teeth at her. _Snapped_ them, as though he was going to tear her throat out like the predator he prided himself as being.

She stayed quiet after that.

It took perhaps two minutes for the Joker to calm himself—two minutes full of Harley avoiding his eyes and chewing the inside of her mouth. When at last the room fell quiet, heavy breathing and quiet snarls both faded, Harley lifted her gaze warily. He bared his teeth at her in a mockery of a smile, as though he had been waiting for her to do so.

"Ya got any _friends_ , doc?"

Harley watched him uneasily. Never trust a mood swing that abrupt. The sudden change may have held less gravity with a different patient, but with the Joker, she had no doubt there was a hidden agenda behind the question. Feeling like fairies had started running laps in her chest, she answered him quietly.

"Yes. I do."

The Joker nodded sagely, like he'd expected the answer.

"And what about the _fam_ , huh? Many of those—" he breathed in deeply—"pesky _relatives_ ya love?"

Oh, she did _not_ like where this was going.

"A few."

He hummed, interested in her answer, linked his fingers together and placed them comfortably on his chest like he was conducting a business meeting.

"What about yourself?" Harley asked, "Do you have any friends or family?"

" _O-o-h_ ," he drew out, "you know me, Quin- _zella_. I ain't much a people person. I just get—get too gosh-darn _shy_."

"Uh-huh." Scepticism bled deep into the word.

The Joker licked his lips again and Harley's gaze followed the movement. He was doing it too frequently. Did he like the taste of the lipstick?

"And what about…a _special_ friend. You-ah…ya got one of those?"

"A special friend," repeated Harley. "Like, what, a best friend?"

"Something like a…" For a moment, the Joker lowered his brows and Harley could have sworn something like hesitation flickered across his face. He hit his wrists hard against the table. The pain seemed to centre him, and he continued, "Like a friend that shoots a guy for you. Buys you twinkly stuff, makes sure the bed's all warm and _cosy_. You got your pretty little self one of _them_?"

The words ran furiously through Harley's head.

 _Shoot a guy?_

 _Twinkly stuff…Christmas lights?_

 _I think he means jewellery, Harley._

 _Oh._

And then she realized what he meant.

 _ **Oh.**_

Apparently, Harley took too long in figuring out his meaning, because the Joker suddenly growled, "Ya got anyone you play _coy_ with, Doc- _tor_?"

"Are you asking me if I have a boyfriend?" Okay. She could have had more tact with that question. She kind of wanted to laugh, though. The way he asked her, the way he tiptoed around the question as though in unfamiliar territory, was…endearing. Cute. "Nah," she said. "Don't have one of those."

 _Don't ask him._

 _Don't do it._

 _Don't—_

"Do you have one?"

The cat-that-ate-the-canary smile that had appeared at her answer grew.

" _Hm, nooo_."

He was teasing her, she thought.

 _Okay, so he doesn't have a boyfriend._

 _Good to know._

"What about a girlfriend?"

The Joker tilted his head back and stared fixedly at the ceiling.

"Girl… _friend_ ," he murmured, rolling the word around his mouth like it was strange on his tongue. "Friendly _girl_." He cocked his head to the side. "A girlie friendly friend." His thoughtful look subsided as he brought his eyes back down to meet hers, his mouth stretching into a languid grin. His lovely blue eyes were heavy and roamed over her, hot and slow. "Hm," he purred, "can't say I ever had myself one o' _those_."

"Well, colour me surprised. You're such a catch." Harley's words were light and playful, her mouth curved slightly to the side. His answer—if it was the truth—didn't particularly surprise her. Although he acted mischievous and mockingly insolent, the person underneath the 'Joker' exterior…well, she couldn't imagine him enjoying the usual affection and consideration a relationship would bring.

 _It would be a control issue,_ she thought.

She doubted words like 'girlfriend' or 'partner' had ever entered his vocabulary until now; both suggested a sense of equality. Harley wasn't sure a personality like the Joker's would ever be able to handle that. It would have to be an incredible doctor who could treat him past that level of megalomania.

 _Or an incredible woman._

Harley tried not to snort at her own thoughts. If such a woman did indeed exist—which she most probably did _not_ —she would have her work cut out for her.

In response to her words, the Joker laid a hand on his chest, and, as if scandalized asked, "Who, me?" The look melted into a smirk. "Such a _kind_ , good, doctor to me, ain't ya, _gumdrop_?"

Harley's cheek dimpled in response. "I do try, Mistah Jay."

He hummed his approval again, a twinkle in his eye. The look made Harley pause. This here, sitting a meter away from her was one of the most dangerous men in the country, and she was _bantering_ with him. She liked him. And the fact that they were to be permanently separated in a week's time suddenly made her incredibly sad, like a weight had fallen into her chest, sinking her feelings until they were a puddle of misery at the bottom of her soul. And all she wanted to do was make him happy, because the next few months with his new doctor would probably be anything but.

"Just give me a second, would you? I'll be back soon." Harley stood and made her way to door.

"You got somewhere to be, sweetheart?" From the quick glance behind her, Harley could tell she had genuinely confused her patient with her sudden departure. There was a comical look of shock on his face that was quickly morphing into irritation.

"No." she smiled as the guard opened the door for her. "Just thought we might as well make our time together count. I'll be back in a moment with the cards."

Forget Arkham's stupid rules.

They were going to have some fun.

* * *

Someone must had hit the repeat button in Harley's brain, because her mind couldn't stop replaying the Joker's session. Heaven help her, that man and his pent-up energy were going to drive her crazy one day—or not, seeing as though she wouldn't be with him much longer. The last twenty minutes of their session had been him, once again, annihilating her at poker. He had decided that instead of winning a whole bunch of little things, he would prefer one big thing. Harley erupted into an inappropriate fit of giggles when he requested a machine gun.

The Joker didn't seem too upset when she refused.

Thoughts simmering in her head like a good soup, Harley made a split decision and turned right at an intersection she would usually go straight at. She had finished work a little later than expected and missed the rush on her way home. The evening was dark, illuminated only by street lamps and open shop fronts. The conversation she had had today about the Joker's clientele and his clubs had made her curious. Harley had never been a huge one for clubbing, although dancing she did enjoy. The social aspect was sometimes fun, but she found just as much enjoyment by sticking her headphones on and clearing her living room to have a solo dance party. No unwanted wandering hands that way, as well.

Harley wove through streets and tried to figure out where she was going. She wasn't entirely familiar with this part of the city; it was a little more high class than she was used to. But it made sense, the blond supposed; she couldn't imagine the joker having anything but the best.

 _What was it called again?_

 _Something really Joker-ish._

 _The smile and the something-something or something._

Turns out she needn't have worried what it was called. Harley turned a corner and had to slam on the brakes to avoid crashing into the humungous line of people (the line spilling onto the _freaking_ _road_ ) waiting to get into the—

 _Oh, that's right!_

Purple neon lights illuminated the club's exterior, the fancy block letters on the side of the building reading, _Grin & Bear It._

 _Whoa._

Harley didn't know what she was expecting, but it wasn't this. This place looked real _classy,_ not the crazy explosion of random architecture she had imagined—and not the typical place she had assumed illicit deals were cut. It had a revolving door, highlighted with bright green led lights, so every time a person entered, a swirl of colour would be left on the back of her eyelids. Everyone in line was dressed to perfection, not a scuffed shoe or a loose thread in sight. Harley huffed a laugh. _Of course_ you had to look like a runway model to enter his club.

Easing around the group of annoying pedestrians loitering in the middle of the road, Harley illegally parked her car to take another peak, and inadvertently caught the eye of a man at the door. Black suit, blue tie and short brown beard, he appeared all business. But when their gaze met, he cocked his head and looked at her quizzically, like he recognized her. Realization must have soon hit because his posture went stiff. He quickly drew his phone out and disappeared inside.

 _Strange._

 _He was looking at me, yeah? Not someone else?_

 _I…don't have a good feeling about this_.

It wasn't that she wasn't _allowed_ to visit this nightclub. The asylum couldn't dictate what she did, or where she went outside of work. And no-one knew who she was here, or who she was treating. At least, she sure hoped they didn't because that would mean the asylum had a rat—someone who was playing double agent for the Joker.

 _Naw_ , she thought, _you're overreacting. He's probably got his knickers in a knot cause you're illegally parked and he thinks you're gonna trying skipping the line or something._

Curiosity quenched, and not wanting to have her car towed, Harley pulled out and made the drive home, trying to avoid thinking about the businessman and the anxiety his gaze had provoked.

* * *

Home at last, Harley set her things down and walked the short distance to her kitchen, sticking her head out the window.

"Back again, are you?" Both canine heads perked up at her voice, but lost interest when they saw her hands devoid of sustenance. In what was most likely an attempt to milk her dry of any food, the two dogs had started frequenting the back alley behind her apartment. Harley hadn't had the heart to let them starve. She had made a few phone calls on the weekend to various dog pounds and veterinary clinics asking if anyone had reported two missing Doberman, but had no luck. The two of them were a mystery.

"Welp," Harley said, grabbing the meat tenders sitting next to her on the counter, "hope you like chicken." The dogs shot up and barked at her. The larger one—a little more trusting and dopey than the other—ran up to the (thankfully shut) dumpster under her and started scratching at it eagerly, trying to reach her.

"Oh, _now_ you change your tune," she muttered. "First it was all _growl, growl, we hate you_ , but now that I'm feeding you, we're bosom buddies." She threw a piece of meat on the ground next to dopey and then one towards the incessantly grumpy one.

 _Huh. Grumpy and Dopey. Suits them._

Grumpy ran over to the chicken but stopped to sniff it abruptly, unlike Dopey, who was moving onto his second piece. Harley watched them eat every last morsel she had bought for them until the night air grew too cold and forced her inside.

* * *

Harley awoke several hours later to whimpering. Half-conscious and bleary-eyed, she got out of bed and stubbed her little toe on the door jamb before limping to the little window. Opening it mechanically, Harley stuck her head out and was about to yell something scathing, most likely _shut_ _up_ , (the best she could do this early in the morning), when a cold wind slammed into her.

She yelped and stuck her head back inside, the freezing air a wake-up call to her hazy mind. The whimpering grew louder. Bracing herself for the inevitability of a runny nose and chattering teeth, Harley once more peeked her head out, the scene before her tugging at her heartstrings. Huddled together in the corner of the alley were her two doggy friends, both shivering and miserable. Dopey's snout lay under Grumpy's neck, while Grumpy's hind legs were hidden beneath the bigger dog's stomach. Harley's earlier cry had drawn their attention and Grumpy let out a pathetic bark before deciding it wasn't worth the effort, opting instead to watch her closely. Dopey just whined even louder.

Groaning softly to herself because she knew she would _never_ get any sleep with the knowledge they were out here freezing to death, Harley rubbed at her face and mumbled, "Wait a second, guys." She ran to her closet and grabbed the biggest, thickest blanket she could find, taking out a couple of throw pillows for good measure. If she was going to take care of them for the immediate future, she might as well do a good job of it.

Stopping only to put her dressing gown on, Harley picked up the bevy of comforts and threw them out the window onto the awaiting dumpster. Following in their path, she climbed out and debated whether she had to courage to let her feet touch the ground, or if she would be better just flinging the blanket and pillows at them.

She had never had a dog before, and had no idea how to go about conducting business between man—er, _woman_ and her best friends. Keeping her eyes glued to the shivering canines, Harley tiptoed to the edge of the bin and knelt. Gingerly, she leaned a leg over the side, the bottom of her dangling foot still a couple of feet away from the ground. The metal of the bin on her bare legs was _freezing_.

Harley looked at the miserable dogs, their whines echoing pitifully.

Looked back to the blanket and cushions.

Looked at the space separating her foot and the concrete.

Looked back at the dogs.

"Okay, look. I'm going to do this nice thing for you. Please don't eat me, maim me, or even try and take a lick. Sound good? Good." Although half of her words came out incomprehensible by the violent chatter of her teeth, Harley thought she'd done a fair job of getting the general message across. Resigned, she leaned behind her and picked up the blankets and cushions, before jumping off the edge, and landing lightly

Both Grumpy and Dopey had their heads raised to the alert, and Harley waited for a few seconds. The two of them seemed to calm, keeping wary eyes her way, but were otherwise untroubled by her presence. The asphalt bit into her feet as she took a step closer. Grumpy's shoulders started to rise, but Dopey, in what looked to be a well-practised gesture, swatted his friend with a paw. The sight made Harley let loose a giggle. Matched with the way Dopey's eyes were following the blanket in her arms, she imagined the gesture meant something akin to, ' _She's got warm stuff. Don't mess this up.'_

Sticking closer to the bigger dog's side, and half ignoring the growl coming from the other one, Harley knelt about a metre in front of them. Not quite brave enough to reach out and touch them, she nudged the mass of cotton warmth towards them and hoped they picked up on the tip. When neither of them moved, she slid the items a little closer.

"C'mon," she said softly, as though they really _could_ understand her, "this'll help." When they both just stared at her again, one pair of earth brown eyes gentle, the other—more chocolate brown—suspicious, Harley clicked. They wanted her to go away. She clenched her teeth. Just like the Joker, and how he'd ignored her at the end of their second session. How'd he'd also wanted her to leave. The same feelings of hurt that had attacked her then washed over her now, like a violent wave cresting the beach.

It was silly. They were just dogs. But still, Harley was powerless to stop the emotions roaring within her. She left the items on the ground and turned around, stomping back to the dumpster. Effortlessly, she lifted herself up. She rubbed her hands together, trying to stave off the awful chill.

"Don't come whining to me when you can't tuck yourselves in properly," she bit out, not sticking around the see the two of them nuzzle their way eagerly under the blanket and pillow pile. Tired and ticked off, Harley went back to bed, and didn't hear another sound from outside for the rest of the night.

* * *

 **Thanks so much for reading and reviewing - I love knowing everyone's thoughts!**


	5. Chapter 5

The three days following Harley's third session passed about as fast as a snail.

She went to the gym. Got bored and left after twenty minutes.

She made a batch of cupcakes. Didn't like them—gave them to Doctor Leland.

She bought a goldfish. Understood that she was in denial when she called it Mistah Bubbles.

She came to the decision that she was acting ridiculous. Three therapy sessions did not a life-long friendship make. She was losing a patient—sad, but bearable. He would be fine. _She_ would be fine. And with that resolution, the young woman's outlook suddenly became much brighter.

* * *

Harley waltzed into the dingy hole of a session room, a cheerful ' _good morning_ ' on the tip of her tongue when she stopped dead.

The Joker was sitting at the table.

 _Check._

The Joker was free of his straitjacket, but still chained at the wrists and ankles.

 _Check._

The Joker was…in the room by himself?

 _System failure. Does not compute._

At the sound of her entrance, he tilted his head back. He was sitting in the chair she usually occupied, the one closest to the door, which meant his back was facing her.

"Uh," she stuttered, taken off-guard. "Hey…where are the guards?"

The Joker heaved out a sigh as he stretched his neck. "Oh, I missed you _too,_ little girl _._ Why don't you come over here and let me tell you just—just _how much_."

Harley stiffened. Her patient was in a very bad mood today.

It was eerie being in the same room as him, but not having a view of his face. It was like the security guards had just dumped him here and his subsequent brooding and boredom had become a tangible thing; it made the very air suffocating, thick with tension.

"Sorry, um…" Harley blinked rapidly. This had never happened before. Doctors overseeing the treatment of violent patients _always_ had an orderly in the room. "I'll be back in a moment, okay? I need to go find—"

"Doctor Quin- _zel,"_ the Joker interrupted loudly. "Those _big boys_ said something 'bout"—chains clinked as he moved his wrists to the table—"their-ah…their _boss_ needin' them to do something. Sounded real _serious_."

"They said Arkham needed them to do something important? Right _now_?"

Her patient shrugged, leaning deeper into his chair like he was sitting on a plush chaise instead of cold metal. "Oh, it's a bit hazy, y'know, doc. One person says one thing, some other guy says another. All gets a bit _mixed up_."

"Right," Harley drew out. She didn't believe him.

The young doctor rounded the table carefully, her expression wary. His face, a mottled purple colour the week before, had faded to a sickly yellow in the past few days and was now almost completely back to its normal shade of ivory. His green hair was slicked back, his lips were drowning in red. The deep purple she had painted his nails just a few days earlier had been scratched off. Seeing him now, after days of separation, felt like a breath of fresh air.

"Still," she said, setting her files on the table. "I think I'd better go find out what's going on."

"But it could be our last time together, Quinny. The _end of the road_ , and all that. You leave now, ya might never be seeing me again," he sung. "And you—you wouldn't want me to think you don't _care._ Do you want me to think that? _Do_ you? _"_

She couldn't decide if he was trying to guilt her, or threaten her.

 _I don't want our last time together to end on a bad note,_ she tried to reason with herself.

 _Nothing bad will happen._

 _And I don't want to make him angry._

Harley froze, mid-step.

She didn't want to make him angry.

Why?

It shouldn't _matter_ —he was just a patient, not her friend, not even a close association. And yet, there was a niggling in her gut, a corrupt seed he had planted while he played his role of the willing patient. The feeling coaxed at her gently to do what he wanted, to make him happy. Harley blanched.

Had…had he done this? Or was it just her? A type of countertransference she had never experienced before? She wasn't going to stick around to find out.

She swallowed, and said, "Look, just—don't move, I'll be…"

The Joker groaned playfully over her words, and gifted her with a knowing smile. "Leaving so _soon_?" he asked.

And then he ripped the chains off his wrists.

There were very few times in her life that Harley had felt true terror.

There was her first date, when she and her crush at the time had walked through an amusement park's haunted house. She had been so scared, she burst into tears halfway through and ran off, sacrificing her date to the zombie that had been chasing them. There was _also_ the time she'd pulled down the sun visor in her car, only for a gargantuan black hell-spawn of a spider to fall upon her lap and skitter across her legs. She rode the bus to college for over a week after that incident. But those experiences, so petrifying at the time, paled in comparison to the fear that washed over her now, at the clank of chains dropping to the floor.

The Joker stood slowly, indolent, and completely at ease. He stretched his arms out wide and shut his eyes, his satisfied chuckle rushing over her and breaking goose-bumps out across her skin.

"You and me," he purred, "need to have a teensy. Tiny. _Talk_."

Harley snapped out of her terrified stupor and ran for the door. If she didn't get out of there now, she was going to _die_. The Joker threw his arm out fluidly and caught her around the waist, and Harley _screamed_. He clucked his tongue and shoved his hand over her mouth, the long nails she had so happily painted for him now digging into her cheek.

"Shh," he whispered into her ear, his warm breath caressing the sensitive skin. Harley tried to break out of his hold—treading on his foot, throwing an elbow to his stomach—but the more she struggled, the tighter his grip became. Holding her back so tightly to his front that is was painful to breathe, the Joker giggled at her escape attempts.

"Doctor Quin- _zel,"_ he said between small bouts of high pitched laughter, "we can do this the easy way, _ooor_ we can do it the _fun_ way. Pick the fun way—pick it, pick it, _pick it_." Harley stopped moving at his words, knowing there was no way inhellshe wanted the fun way. Seeing her surrender, the Joker giggled again.

"Oh, my _mistake_. There ain'tno _easy_ way."

Taking hold of the hair at the base of her scalp, the Joker slammed her head into the concrete wall. Harley yelped, black spots overtaking her vision. Tears of both fear and pain spilled over her cheeks, onto his hand.

"Uh-uh," he sung, turning her—squashing her between his body and the wall. "Waterworks ain't gonna getcha nowhere. Not after that _stunt_ ya pulled last time."

The Joker moved his hand from her mouth and brought it to his own, pulling her head so he could meet her gaze. Smiling, he licked the salty tears from his fingers, one by one, each stroke of his tongue deliberate. Harley clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. The Joker placed his hand back over her mouth—Harley could taste his bitter saliva through her parted lips, could feel it in the slipperiness between their skin.

"Now," he said, sliding a leg between the two of hers and pinning her to the wall with his hips, allowing his other hand to grip her lightly across the neck. His thumb stroked her frantic pulse. "Tell ol' _Mistah Jay…_ tell him 'bout this changing do _c_ - _tor_ business."

Harley felt her eyes go impossibly wider. _That_ 's what this was about? The Joker slid his hand from her mouth to beneath her chin, spreading her pink lipstick down her face and granting her permission to speak.

Harley took a deep breath. "I was only ever going to be your doctor for a few weeks. Arkham's flying some guy over from—well, I don't know where, he just said interstate." She pushed herself closer to the wall, needing air, needing _space._ "Um, his—his name is 'Mon' something. Mon, um— _Monroe._ That's it. William Monroe. That's all I know, I swear."

"Hmm." The Joker studied her thoughtfully as Harley clenched her teeth and tried her best to keep from shaking. The side of her head was throbbing and the Joker was going to kill her, and her neck would be snapped, and she was going to _die_ —

Rapid footsteps at the end of the corridor.

With an irritated grunt, the Joker let go of her and strode to the heavy door, grabbing one of the metal chairs in the centre of the room and dragging it behind him. He slammed the door shut with impressive force—Harley flinched—and then wedged the chair under the handle. Any spark of hope Harley had guttered out. She moved then, sliding beneath the table and curling herself into a ball. Wishing herself invisible.

Her wish, for all appearances, seemed to come true, because when the heavy-booted footsteps—several pairs of them—reached the door, the Joker was stalking around the room, hitting the side of his closed fist against the wall every few seconds. Banging came from the other side of the door, the chair rattling at the impact. The Joker snarled—an animal lock in its cage with nowhere to go.

Muffled voices leaked into the room, but Harley's head spun, too concussed to pay it any heed. But then—everything went quiet. The door was solid steel; it was going to take much more than a determined group of orderlies to dislodge it.

The Joker took a deep breath, ran his hands through his hair, then grabbed his white shirt from the back and pulled it over his head. The rigidity in his shoulders instantly abated, like the removal of his shirt had also removed his anger. He splayed his fingers out and the material dropped to the floor.

 _What do I do?_

 _C'mon Harley, think!_

 _Procedure, procedure, proce—_

 _Screw procedure, just get out alive._

The Joker turned towards her, icy eyes bright.

 _No, I'm not here._

 _Not here, not here, not here—_

He balanced down on one knee in front of her, just out of touching range and cooed at her, soft and placating, "C'mon, little Quinzel. Come _here_. Let your Mistah Jay look after you." His arms were open wide as if in preparing to catch her. He twiddled his fingers at her. _Come here,_ he was saying. Harley rubbed a hand over her eyes, her vision blurry—she tried not to sway as dizziness got its hooks in her. She _hated_ his sudden mood swings and how unpredictable they made him. She wasn't moving. Not of her own volition.

Her decision must have been written across her face, because a deep growl ripped out of the Joker's throat as he snapped forward, grabbing her by the shoulders. Harley's cry of surprise was smothered as her face slammed into the side of his neck. His skin was cold and smooth, like it was polished stone instead of flesh and blood beneath her cheek. The Joker pushed himself back, leaning them against the wall adjacent to the door. Harley's legs dragged across the floor like a ragdoll's.

" _Shh,"_ he hushed her, the sound more guttural than calming. Harley stayed as still as her trembling body could manage as the Joker crossed his legs and folded her into his lap. He positioned her head, resting her cheek on his collarbone. His calloused finger scraped across her face, exploring.

"You know, I _believe_ you," he whispered almost affectionately, flicking her nose. Their faces were inches apart, close enough for Harley to see the small, pale scars that ran down his cheeks in lines she had never noticed before. Not many people, she'd bet, had been so close to him and lived to tell the tale.

"You'd-ah…you'd never try and leave your Mistah Jay on _purpose_ , would you, honey bunny?" He bounced her up and down gently. "Would you, would you, would you?"

Harley shook her head furiously, not trusting her voice.

" _Hmm, good girl_."

She lifted her dark blue gaze to his bright, icy one. His pupils dilated—his breathing quickened and he shifted a little, a tiny furrow appearing between his eyes. It wasn't until he shifted again, plainly uncomfortable, that Harley finally realized something.

The Joker—Gotham city's vainest, richest, most notorious villain—was attracted to his doctor. Was attracted to _her_. Damn Arkham. He had been right. Harley watched him for a few more seconds, noted his strained expression, felt the way his fists clenched at her shoulders. His posture and intense, almost _angry_ expression reminded her of that day a week ago, when he had ignored her after she—

After she'd let her hair down and taken her glasses off.

 _No. No way._

 _It can't have been that._

 _Do you have any idea how ridiculous this sounds?_

But as ridiculous as it _did_ sound, Harley finally understood his sudden silence that day, the reason he looked both angry and confused all at once. The Joker had been attracted to her, and he didn't know how to react. And although it was flattering, although she might later blush over the fact such a powerful man apparently had a crush on her, said man had just smashed her head into a wall and locked him inside a room with her. Oh, and stripped off half naked.

The latter part may have been attractive if not for the former.

But she now had something she could use to her advantage. A possible way out of the situation. The sedative Arkham authorized her to carry was a burning weight in her pocket. To use it hadn't even occurred to her earlier. Everything had happened so fast—and the Joker would have snatched it off her as soon as he saw it. She'd have to be smart about this.

Slowly, passively, she placed her hands on his crossed thighs, feeling the muscle bunch and spasm beneath his navy track pants. The grip steadied her as she raised onto her knees. Harley took a deep breath and locked eyes with him again, blinking to keep him in focus. If she thought keeping eye-contact with him for a prolonged period was usually daunting, close proximity made it infinitely worse. Mere centimetres separated their faces. His shallow breaths puffed across her mouth, the light scent a fusion of aniseed and something sharp and tangy she couldn't place. Her thighs brushed his gently within the cocoon of his legs, and the concrete floor pushed at her knees.

The Joker lifted a hand to the bridge of her glasses and he plucked them off, throwing them to the side. Fingers glided up the nape of her neck to land at the back of her ponytail, and her hair band was soon discarded in a similar fashion. Blonde locks fell down her shoulders in waves, extending well beyond her shoulder blades. The Joker hummed, and plunged his hands in wrist deep, tugging at the back of her neck, pulling on the sensitive hairs there.

A loud _bang_ vibrated through the room, and then another. The voices had started up outside the door again, and by the sounds of it, someone had managed to find something to attack the handle with. The sounds may have been a fly on the wall for all the attention the Joker paid to them; his heavy gaze was locked on hers and it didn't look like he had plans to move it any time soon. Trying to ignore the spark of hope igniting at her chest, Harley inched closer to him, closer and _closer,_ until his lips were a hair's breadth away from hers.

Harley slid her hand down his chest—into her pocket. The Joker shuddered at the contact. She brought her other hand to the sharp line of his cheek bone; his face was as unnaturally soft as the back of his hands. The rise and fall of his chest matched hers. Time seemed to stand still as they stared at each other, neither one closing the distance between the other. But then slowly _—so slowly_ —the Joker's eyes slipped shut.

And Harley plunged the syringe into his neck.

He roared. Pushed her away, and wrenched the needle out. His face was livid as he glared at the empty syringe, and he shook his head, trying to dislodge the lethargy that was no doubt setting in. Harsh grunts echoed throughout the room with his every exhale.

 _Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep._

 _Why hasn't he collapsed yet?_

 _No one could stay awake after a dose like that!_

The Joker was blinking rapidly and snarling, smacking his sides, face and arms, using the pain to stay lucid. Harley made to hide under the table again—her heart stuttered as his fingers wrapped around her around the elbow.

"Oh, doc- _tor_ ," he ground out, "that wasn't very _nice_."

He backhanded her.

Harley was rocked back into the table, the corner of it digging into her, as fireworks exploded behind her eyelids. She fell to the floor, gasping, and she curled around herself, a hand going to sooth the sharp ache in her cheek. The arms that draped around her barely registered, but whimper of protest escaped her as he carried. The sounds of forced entry were growing brasher, the assault on the door in time with the pounding of her check and temple.

 _What…what is that door made from?_ Harley thought dizzily, _Magical, diamond encased metal_?

Again, the Joker placed her in his lap, this time nuzzling his face into her neck and rocking her like a baby.

"Oh _, there, there,"_ he crooned, "nothing's broken. You'll be _fine_. Now you know—you know not to do that, _don't_ ya, little girl." He slammed his head back against the wall and groaned, blinking over and over. "Daddy didn't _like_ that. Daddy had to punish his little, little girl. _"_

And so it went for minutes, the Joker cradling her, whispering sweet and toxic nothings into her ear while Harley held her cheek and stomach, wishing she would wake up, that all this was just a nightmare. And finally— _finally,_ it came to an end.

The door burst open. Men, clad in back cargo and combat boots, swarmed in like ants, shouting and waving guns around. Three circled the Joker, who had burst out laughing, before two others pulled Harley away from him. There was no resistance on his side; they had him pinned to the floor, holding him down with the butt of their guns. Tears ran down his face as he tried to catch his breath. Harley watched the scene unfold numbly. She wasn't really there—was experiencing it through someone else's eyes. And She was fine. Bruised and battered, but still breathing. She looked blankly at a guard who asked her something. What had he said? He said something else and Harley blinked at him, still not comprehending.

"Um…" she said, her small voice almost inaudible beneath the laughter and shouts and threats coming from the other side of the room. "I…" She swallowed. "I think I have a concussion. Or I'm in shock. Or both, maybe." She shrugged, mechanically. Her ears were ringing and she just wanted to _leave_. Harley made to walk out, but the man talking to her—he wasn't very nice—stepped in front of her and tried to get her attention.

"Look, I just need some water or something. I—I need to…" Harley stumbled, half falling over before the silly man in front of her had the good sense to do something about it. The man picked her up roughly, and she exhaled, hand pressing against her bruised side. His footsteps were bouncy and jerky and they had left the room and—oh no, she was going to _spew._

"Put me down, put me down—down, _now_." Harley hit his shoulder and wriggled free, folding in on herself. She trembled as she tried to control her breathing, and clutched at the roots of her hair.

 _It's okay. You're okay. It's okay._

She clung to the mantra like it was her life jacket in the deep end of the sea.

* * *

Harley was given a two week leave of absence.

The memory of her last time with the Joker was murky, and she eventually convinced herself it hadn't been as bad as she remembered—although, her bruised face and tender body disagreed. The Joker's new doctor arrived, and from the phone call Harley shared with Leland, she had learned he was a hit with the female doctors.

It was common knowledge now that the Joker was at the asylum, and had been since the night of his arrest. Instead of crediting Harley as his doctor, Arkham had skipped over her work all together and implied she would be finding a new job if anyone found out. Harley replied in kind, threatening to tell people she had been left alone with the Joker at Arkham's request, to which the man in question vehemently denied. They were currently at a standstill.

But that was the funny thing; no one knew how the Joker had ended up alone with her in the session room that day. And, as Arkham had sacked every single guard that had been a part of the Joker's security rotation, they would probably never find out. Beneath the anger and disbelief, beneath the fear and confusion, all Harley felt was exhaustion.

She was so very tired.

Grumpy and Dopey continued to hang around, taking advantage of her blankets and free food. Dopey liked her well enough, and Grumpy no longer snapped his teeth at her every time she came near. Still, she hadn't worked up the courage to pat them yet.

Several times she went and parked outside the Joker's club, feeling pathetic every time, like a kicked puppy. The feeling only grew each time she went, and so, eventually, she stopped going all together. There was never any sign of the strange businessman.

Life, for two weeks, went by.

And then it was time to go back to work.

* * *

 **So...I have mixed feelings about this chapter. It's a little shorter than the others, mainly because I wanted to keep their last session together condensed and without distractions (makes it more dramatic that way, haha.) But, yeah. The Joker was pretty brutal in this one. But hey, it's still early days for the two of them. Thanks so much for reading, and please do tell me what you thought on the way out!**


	6. Chapter 6

"When was the last time you showered?"

Harley shut her eyes and huffed. "What?"

"The last time you _bathed_ , woman. You look like death warmed up."

The blonde rolled her eyes. "Just because I've been sick, doesn't mean I haven't showered. I smell fine."

Crane's pursed his lips and muttered, "If you insist."

Sickness. To everyone but her and Arkham, that had been the reason for her absence from work these past couple of weeks. It was a believable lie, because it was partly true. Harley hadn't been eating much since _it_ happened, and had consequently suffered from a heavy bout of lethargy, causing dark half-moons to form under her eyes. She couldn't remember the last time her collarbone had jutted out so prominently.

The bruises on her face and stomach had healed quickly, vanishing within days thanks to the bottle of Hirudoid cream she had picked up at the pharmacy. Her concussion had only been mild, and all physical reminders of the Joker's violence towards her had now disappeared.

Harley sighed. "I can't be bothered arguing today, Crane. Tell me something nice."

Crane, steepling his fingers, said "Emetophobia is the fear of vomiting."

"I said something _nice_. And I already knew that," Harley said, leaning back in her chair.

He cocked his head thoughtfully. "Two people die every second."

"Crane," she spluttered, splaying her hands in front of her. " _Seriously_?"

He smiled a smile that would appear impish on any other face, but somehow just made him look insincere. "Something nice. Well, they served actual white bread last week with the salad sandwiches, instead of the usual wholemeal abomination. Oh, and one of the inmates had a stroke in the common room and knocked over my game of chess. Such fun."

"Oh, yeah?" Harley drawled. "Who were you playing against?"

"Myself."

Harley looked at him blankly for a second, and then snorted a giggle. "You and me, my friend. Just two buckets of sunshine."

Crane grunted and swirled his water around in his plastic cup. Harley looked at her own sad meal of cheesy processed pasta and fruit salad, and set her fork down to the side. Her appetite hadn't fully come back to her yet.

"Your visitor come again lately?" she asked.

"Yes."

Harley waited for him to continue. When he was no more forth coming, she urged, " _And?_ How's it coming?"

His gaze snapped up to meet hers, a hard frown marring his features. He stared at her a beat, then asked, "How's _what_ coming?"

Harley stared at him quizzically. What did he think she was talking about? "You," she explained, "and your lady friend."

His expression cleared somewhat, although puzzlement was left in its wake. "Who?"

 _Does he not remember?_

"Remember? You told me last time that you had a visitor, and I asked if it was a girl, and you just said it was a past student or something…."

His face had taken on a faraway look while she was explaining, like he was searching his memory. At her mention of a past student, his eyes went wide. "I told you that, did I?

Harley raised a pale eyebrow. "Uh, yeah."

"Hm." An awkward paused followed in which Crane glared the table in confusion, and Harley glared at _him_ in suspicion."He's a male." Crane blurted.

"Yeah…okay. Sorry." Another awkward pause.

"Anyway," Harley said. Their conversation had turned a little too weird for her current brain capacity to handle. "I've had—"

"Oh, please, not _again_." Crane smacked his hands to his temples and hunched his shoulders.

 _Crane, what is_ _ **wrong**_ _with you today?_

"What?" she asked, trying not to sound offended. "What is it?"

"Prepare, my dear. You're about to meet the most pretentious _lout_ in the history of all mankind."

"What…" she started to ask again, but trailed off when a flash of vivid green speared across her vision.

 _No._

 _Oh,_ _ **no way**_ _._

 _No, they wouldn't let him in here, not after he—_

" _Ooh_. I ain't _interrupting,_ am I?"

The quiet chatter of the few others in cafeteria faded, until all Harley could hear was the pounding, drum-like beat of her own heart. It hit and thumped and punched like the organ was trying to rip free of her chest cavity. His dark, rich voice, saturated with power, had come from beside her. Goose-bumps broke out along her skin. A cold sweat gathered on the back of her neck. She was shock, fear and perverse anticipation.

Crane placed a hand over his eyes—like if he couldn't see the Joker standing next to the table, then he didn't exist. Setting her jaw, Harley turned.

Her ex-patient was balancing a plastic food tray on an open palm, and holding a large carton of banana milk in the other. He looked…fine. Leaner than when she had last seen him. He was wearing the customary navy track pants and white shirt all patients wore, and, Harley noticed with a start, the polka dotted socks she had bought for him. Now that his body was devoid of restraints, his posture was straight and graceful.

He appeared so sure of himself.

His green hair had been cut recently—longer on the top then on the sides—and was, as usual, slicked back. Someone must have gone to the effort to re-dye his hair as well, because the green strands were as eye-catching as the first day they had met. Harley couldn't help staring. Crane's words snapped her out of it. "Everywhere you _go_ is interrupted," he muttered.

The Joker dropped his tray on the table and cupped a hand around his ear. "You-ah…you _say_ something _Scardey-_ crow? Ain't nobody likes a mumbler. Say it louder. Louder, louder, _louder_."

Harley shook her head. What was he _doing_ here? Should she ignore him? Walk away? A little nervously, she gathered her rubbish onto her own tray, preparing to leave, when she noticed the look on Crane's face, opposite. For someone unfamiliar with the dark-haired man, the tell-tale signs would be impossible to recognise. But Harley could see it; the Joker's words had triggered something remote within him.

 _Scarecrow,_ she realised. _He called him Scarecrow._

 _Well…kind of._

She couldn't just leave after the Joker had insulted Crane. What kind of friend would that make her? And so, putting aside her _flight_ reaction and deciding it was time for _fight_ , Harley swallowed, and said quietly, "Crane. His name is Crane. Not Scarecrow."

The Joker's gaze met her own and she couldn't tell what emotion lay behind them. They were as bright and lovely blue as ever. His brow furrowed as he said, "Oh, _gee,_ doc- _tor_ —my mistake." He looked back to Crane. "So, _so_ sorry, Scaredy-Crane."

Her friend made a sound like he was in pain.

The Joker placed the carton of milk next to his tray and sat down heavily, making himself comfortable within a foot of her. Her entire body stiffened, and her nerve endings revved up like someone had taken a joy buzzer to them.

"Whadda we got today?" the Joker said to himself, rubbing his hands together and inspecting the contents of his tray. "We got-ah…"He picked a piece of lettuce out of his salad, looking mildly revolted. "I ain't eating no leaf." He threw the offending vegetable onto Harley's pasta. Crane snorted and rolled his eyes.

"And this," he continued, holding up a fishfinger. "They just don't _make_ things like they used to. I mean what—what happened to the sweet baked _cookies_ , the fat, juicy _steaks_?"

"Ah, yes," Crane muttered, "the _good_ old days of this horrid place. Back before your escape that detonated half the asylum, and thereby wasted precious funding."

Harley raised an eyebrow at her friend. That would have been years ago.

"How long have you _lived_ here?" She blurted at him.

Crane gave her a dirty look and said rigidly, "Long _enough_ , Harleen."

The Joker's tattooed hand, halfway to the milk carton, froze. Slow and eerie, like the monster of a horror story, he turned his head to stare at her. Teeth bared in a gruesome smile and eyes shining with pleasure, the Joker's voice was husky and overflowed with the satisfaction of discovery. " _Harleen."_

She clenched her teeth at the timbre of his words, at the way he looked ready to pounce on her.

 _No, no, no._

 _I had enough of that last time we met, thanks._

Flustered and trying not to show it, Harley swallowed and focused her attention back on Crane. "Thanks for that, _Johnny_."

But the Joker did _not_ like Harley ignoring him. He smacked his hands on the table, loud enough that she flinched. The water in Crane's cup rippled and shook from the force of the blow.

"You two," he said, his eyes switching between them, "seem real _close_. Tell me, Harleen _—_ old _Johnny_ -boy here ever _shoot_ a guy for you?"

Crane frowned. "I'm not some common thug, like yourself. All the lives I've ever taken have been purely for research purposes." The Joker ignored the bespectacled man all together and squinted at Harley.

"No," she said, understanding his reference to the session where he asked if she had a boyfriend. Was he…was he _jealous_? Harley knew he had been attracted to her, but to that extent? She threw in for good measure, "And he's never bought me twinkly stuff either."

The Joker dragged his tongue along his teeth. Red lipstick, the one she bought him, smothered his mouth.

" _Good."_ He growled. His eyes locked on to her face, until they travelled down a little lower.

Lower.

Harley followed his gaze.

 _Hang on a second, is he…is he looking at my boobs?_

She was wearing a plain—but still pretty—red blouse underneath her white lab coat. The V-neck was small, and didn't show a hint of cleavage. The Joker didn't seem to care though. His lips were parted, his gaze bright and heated. Eyes as wide as saucers and mouth about to catch a fly, Harley crossed her arms and leaned away.

 _Seriously?_

 _Stop it—you're meant to be insane. Don't act like a_ _ **normal**_ _guy._

Crane looked between the two of them dubiously. "Have you two met?" His voice was careful.

Harley snapped her head up. "No," she said a little too forcibly. "We've never met, have we…Joker."

The Joker hummed, amused, and reluctantly tore his gaze from her chest. "Oh, no, Harleen. Call me _Mistah Jay."_

Yeah, right.

Harley rubbed her temples and stopped herself from stamping her stilettoed heel on his foot under the table. So, this is how it would be; no talk of what had happened. No recognition, no apology, nothing. It in no way surprised her. Hell, the new doctor may have been flooded him with so many drugs in the last two weeks, he had forgotten their incident had ever happened. Though, looking at him now, completely lucid and energetic as usual, Harley doubted that was the case.

But the thought had prompted a question to rear its ugly head at her.

"So, Mr _Joker,"_ she started casually, emphasizing the name. Her initial shock and unease at his appearance had calmed down a little. "I heard you have a new doctor. Tell me, do you like him?"

Oh, wow. Could she be any more obvious?

He squinted at her as he chewed on a fishfinger. Harley watched the movement of his pale throat as he swallowed. At last, he said, "Well, I've had _better_."

 _Good answer_ , she thought.

"You're being good for him, aren't you? Helping him out, doing what he asks?"

He put a hand to his chest. " _Of course_ , Doc _-tor_ Harleen." He raised his brows and crooned, "You know I'm a good boy."

 _Oh, please._

 _I know no such thing._

"Well, you must be a good boy for _him_ if he's letting you eat lunch in here. Without a _guard_." She didn't hide the bitterness in her voice.

The Joker turned his body so he was facing her entirely, and his knee brushed hers gently under the table. It wasn't an accident. "Oh, don't be like _that,_ sugarplum." He lifted his hand to tuck a piece of wayward hair behind her ear, and she tensed again. His hand came to rest underneath her mouth lightly, and he squeezed her cheeks.

He pouted at her. "You know _I_ didn't want this."

Harley wrenched her face out of his hand and glared at him. "Don't touch me," she seethed.

The Joker raised his brows held his palms out in surrender. It was then that Crane cut in, inarticulate words spewing out. "You—him—he was your…Oh, Harley. You have my sympathies."

Harley covered her face with her hands. This was _so_ out of her control.

"Harley," the Joker muttered. " _Harley_ , Harley. Harleen Quinzel-ah. Harley Quinzelly." He licked his lips. "Y'know, I knew a guy. Had this snazzy _motorbike—"_

"Yeah, yeah," she waved him off. "Someone had a Harley, my name's Harley, I know, I know. Amazing."

"Oh, that's not what _I_ was gonna say." He ran his fingers through his hair before opening the milk carton.

She sighed. "What? What were you going to say?"

He ignored her and took a swig, not bothering to use the straw provided. Crane and Harley's eyes met across the table and her friend, in an uncharacteristic display of violent support, pointed his finger at the Joker discreetly and then pretended to stab himself in the eye with his fork.

 _Shall I dispose of him for you?_

Harley bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a smile, and brought a hand up to cover her mouth. Across from her, Crane flinched, swearing under his breath as a loud _thump_ sounded under the table, and leaning down to clutch at his shin.

" _Barbarian_ ,' he hissed at the Joker.

"Mistah Jay!" Harley reprimanded, and then mentally slapped herself. She wasn't meant to call him that.

The Joker lifted his attention from his food absently, gaze flashing to hers. He did a double take, like she had just magically appeared and hadn't been sitting next to him for the past five minutes. "You say somethin', _Harley-_ girl?"

Harley shook her head, exasperated. What was she doing? This man—the man sitting _next_ her—had bashed her face into a concrete wall only fourteen days ago.

 _No. This isn't right._

 _Oh, come on, it's not doing any harm—_

 _ **No.**_

Here he was, talking to her fondly and acting as though the last time they had been in the same room together hadn't even happened. _Of course_ , he remembered it. The way he looked at her, like they were sharing a private joke—she would be fooling herself if she believed otherwise. Harley squared her shoulders.

How dare he. How _dare_ he gain her trust, her _friendship,_ and then throw it back in her face like that.

How dare he hurt her like that.

But the final straw—the thing that broke the camel's back in to a million pieces—was when his eyes met hers across the space that divided them, because he smiled at her slyly.

And then he _winked_.

It was like he had waited for that very moment because he had known what she was thinking, the way she was internally stewing over him and his blasé act. Like he _knew_ the entire situation was eating her up from the inside out, and he was enjoying it—was taking advantage of it. Harley was so _sick_ of being taken advantage of.

And so, Harley did something really stupid.

Grabbing Crane's cup of water, she dumped the entire contents onto the Joker's lap.

Both men at the table froze, and she waved her arm in the air to get an orderly's attention. In a voice that carried across the entire room, she called out, "Excuse me! Mistah Jay—oh, sorry _,_ the _Joker_ here seems to have had an accident." She looked to the mess on the floor and then lifted her gaze to meet her former patient's. His face was blank, though his shoulders heaved with jagged breaths. The way his hands were clenching brought her no small amount of satisfaction.

"Don't worry, Mistah Jay _,"_ she purred, "I'm sure he'll have you all cleaned up in no time. Oh, and also," she smiled sweetly, "don't ever call me _Harleen_."

With those parting words, and a brief glance a Crane—who had the most hilarious look of shock on his face—Harley twirled around on her seat and walked out of the cafeteria.

That would teach him to mess with her.

It wasn't until she reached the doorway that she heard his laughter, sharp and booming and genuinely mirthful. Not able to help herself, she peeked behind her. The Joker was bent over the table, fingers plunged deeply in his hair and watching her dramatic exit. When he noticed her attention, he began a slow applause.

She hated the way her chest grew warm at his approval.

In a strange reversal of roles, it was Harley that this time approached Joan Leland in a flurry of emotions. The carpeted corridor leading to the staff room was empty but for the two of them.

"Hi Joan," she said quickly, throwing away all professional civility, "do you know where the new doctor's office is?"

"Harleen," Leland said, smile lighting her face. "You're back. How are you?"

"Um, yeah, fine. Thank you. Look, sorry—I'm in a bit of a rush. Do you know where I can find Doctor Monroe?"

The older woman tilted her head, and asked, "Something the matter?"

Harley wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her.

 _I just announced that the Joker wet himself to the entire cafeteria—what do_ _ **you**_ _think?_

"No," she said, "I just really need to talk to him about…something."

Leland lifted her eyebrows. "Anything I can help with?"

 _Lady, are you doing this on purpose?_

"Thank you, but no. Do you know where he is?"

Her mentor shrugged her shoulders lightly and said, "I think his office is the one next to Doctor Arkham's. Be sure you don't bother him with anything unnecessary; the man has enough on his plate already with the Joker."

Harley clenched her hands and tried not to bristle at the words.

"Thank you," she replied, grinding her teeth and leaving Joan's presence before she did something _else_ seriously stupid.

Making her way up the stairs to Monroe's office, Harley thought about what she would say. _'Hi. I saw the Joker in the cafeteria. You're an idiot.'_ Or maybe, _"Hi, nice to meet you. There's this amazing thing some people have called common sense. Ever heard of it?'_ Neither option felt aggressive enough for her right now.

Harley took a deep breath and then pounded on the door.

Seconds passed with no answer.

She knocked again, even louder. "Hello," she called. "Doctor Monroe?"

Down the hallway, Arkham's door opened and he poked his head out. His mouth curled down at the sight of her.

"Ah, Quinzel. You'd better come in."

 _No-o-o!_ she wanted to wail. She had been so close!

The only contact Harley had been forced to make with Arkham in the last fortnight had been a short but brutal interview immediately following the Joker incident, plus a brief phone call the day after. Kicking herself for making a loud enough racket as to catch his attention, Harley followed him obediently like the good little doctor she was growing sick of being.

"Actually, sir," she said as she entered the room, "I was looking for—oh." Harley stopped walking at the sight of another person in the room. The man was tall and well dressed, his form fitting blue dress shirt rolled up to the elbows and tucked neatly into dark slacks. Hair a similar shade to Harley's golden blonde was combed neatly to the side like a fifties movie villain. He was, perhaps, in his early forties. Leaning comfortably against Arkham's desk, he was holding a bottle of—

 _Is that…whiskey?_

 _Are they_ _ **drinking**_ _in here?_

Habit of drinking before noon aside, Harley had to admit, the guy was an extremely fine specimen of manhood. Shaking her thoughts away, the young woman met his hazel gaze. "Doctor Monroe, I presume."

He placed the bottle of whiskey behind him on the desk, and crossed the distance between them to take her hand between both of his. He smiled warmly, looking so delighted to meet her that it came off as slightly creepy.

"Please, call me William. It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Quinzel—can I call you Harleen?"

Harley stared at him, slightly horrified. _He knows my name?_

Monroe watched her expectantly _._ His hands were still clamped firmly around hers.

"Uh…I prefer Harley, actually."

"Harley," he repeated. "Jeremiah has told me all about you."

The older man, currently rifling through papers at his desk, grunted.

 _Oh, joy._

Freeing her hand to wipe it subtly on her lab coat, Harley lamented this unfortunate course of events. Her plan had been as follows:

1\. Find and confront the Joker's new doctor.

2\. Something, something, something.

3\. The Joker would be her patient again and no longer leisurely gulping down banana milk in the cafeteria.

Arkham had never factored into this plan.

 _And the second part,_ she admitted to herself, _may have been a tad short-sighted._

Anger still brewing from the cafeteria episode, Harley grasped hold of the feeling and wrapped it around her like a prickly blanket. She was determined; they would _not_ win the coming argument.

"Well, that was very good of him." Her words were honeyed, layered with snark she could never recall hearing in her voice before. "I'm so glad I could run in to you, _William,_ because the strangest thing just happened to me. There I was, eating in the cafeteria, when who should walk in, but your new patient."

"Oh, fantastic!" Monroe said. "Tell me, was he socializing well with the others?"

 _Huh?_

"I swapped his meal roster a few days ago, because he got in a bit of a tussle with—well, it doesn't matter who. The late-morning time slot seems to suit him much better, though. Asked for it in particular, actually"

Harley was pretty sure her face was telling him she thought he was an idiot, but just to make sure—"The Joker asked you to change his meal time-slot, and you just did it?" She raised her arms in question. "Did he also ask you to take off his straitjacket? _Hm?_ Is that why he was prancing around _unrestrained_?" She couldn't believe the audacity of this man. And Arkham—why on earth had he allowed this?

Harley opened her mouth to continue, but Arkham snapped, "Quinzel, that's _enough._ Give us a few minutes, would you, William."

Monroe, looked between them, before murmuring politely, "Yes, of course." He was out the door the next a moment, whiskey bottle tucked securely under his arm.

Harley turned to her boss. "Sir, I don't understand. Why has the Joker been allowed privileges?"

Arkham sighed. "This is about your incident, isn't it."

He wasn't asking.

"Yes," she exploded, "of _course_ it is. Sir, he is violent—he is _dangerous_. He threw me into the wall like he was throwing a _doll_. I thought he was going to kill me! You know all this _and_ you hate the guy, yet he's walking around like he owns the place. _Why?"_

"Doctor Monroe's treatment methods are his own. They've worked with others, and I have no doubt they'll be just as effective this time." Harley wanted to shriek at him and throw one of the stupid, dusty medical tomes littered around the room at his head. His words had been the most pathetic attempt at placation she'd ever heard.

"This'll only increase his likelihood of escape—can't you _see_ that? Monroe as much as admitted this is exactly what the Joker wants."

" _Doctor_ Monroe has a vast amount of experience with high profiled, mentally ill criminals, and knows exactly what he's doing. This is not up for discussion, Quinzel."

 _Fine, then_. She decided, vehemently. _But I'm not finished._

"Okay, then," She said heatedly. "Let's talk about two weeks ago when I shoved five mg of Midazolam straight into his blood stream. Why didn't it work? I injected _all_ of it, and nothing happened. What is he, like, _immune_ or something?"

"Yes."

That pulled Harley up short. "Yes? Yes, he's immune?"

Arkham nodded, the movement jerky.

Her jaw dropped open in shock, and she snarled, "What the hell did you _give_ it to me for, then?"

"Calm _down,_ Quinzel, or I will ask you to leave." His voice was steel.

The rise and fall of Harley's chest was rapid as she ran her fingers through her hair. When the gesture triggered memories of the Joker, she ripped her hands away.

"Why did you give it to me?" She asked again, calmer this time but no less fuming.

"Because you asked for it."

Harley shook her head, stumped. " _What_?"

"It was the only way you would agree to treat him," he explained, "so I gave it to you."

She stared at him. "And, what, you didn't think to tell me it wouldn't work? Didn't bother writing it in his file?"

Her employer looked at her patronizingly. "You really think I have only one file dedicated to the Joker? A file I gave to _you_? _"_

"What?" Harley whispered. "But—but you said that it was all you had on him, and not to lose it, and…" She trailed off.

Her heart sunk to her stomach and nausea rolled through her. This had all been a set-up. Arkham had _set her up_ to fail from the start. She was young and inexperienced, and others would only be too willing to attack her credibility. Legally, they had needed a doctor to look after the Joker's case in the interim. Other doctors may not have known he was at the asylum, but the police did, as well as the asylum board—and the Batman.

With her out of the way, Arkham and Monroe would be free to continue the Joker's treatment however they liked. What she didn't understand was why that treatment included liberties like cafeteria visits and haircuts. She was missing something. Harley felt like she was always one step behind everyone else.

She also felt like she was going to commit murder if she stayed in this room much longer.

Harley shook with anger while her eyes burned dark blue with promise. "If you screw me over _one_ more time," she said, deathly calm, "I am going to make you regret it."

Arkham went to splutter a reply, but Harley had already slammed the door shut behind her.

* * *

 **Angry, spiteful Harley is so fun to write** ^-^  
 **Thank you for all the kind words and comments. Y'all gems.**


	7. Chapter 7

For Harley, rain was never a good thing. Rain turned her hair curly. Rain, for some inexplicable reason, made her apartment smell like feet. And in the movies, rain was the signal that something was about to go wrong. It was with minimal surprise then, that just before Harley was about to leave for work Monday morning—after a lazy weekend of binge eating and procrastination—that violent barking broke out behind her apartment.

 _What?_ The thought was a moan. W _hat could you possibly want this time?_

The might-as-well-be-sub-zero temperatures Harley had been dreading had finally hit Gotham a week before, and her two friends of the canine variety were taking it hard. The blanket and pillows she had provided for them now lived permanently in the corner of the little alley, yet she sometimes still woke to whimpering at night. She had even tried to coax them inside at one point, but was unsuccessful. Dopey had appeared willing enough, but Grumpy had stayed curled obstinately in the corner, shivering miserably. The larger dog sat back down once he realized his friend was staying put; apparently, whatever they did, they did as a pair.

Listening to the racket they were now making, Harley wondered if it was worth going to check on them. They would be fine, right? She had caved in and bought some proper dog food recently, and had left a couple of bowls worth out for them this morning, so it wasn't like they'd be going hungry. But their barking was loud and aggressive and Harley had moved past the point of hoping they would just shut up. Groaning, she pulled herself onto the counter and peered through the window.

The glass was painted with raindrops, the pretty tear shapes running their tracks down her window and making it difficult to see. Preparing herself for the onslaught of cold and wet her face was about to receive, Harley slid the glass open. Squinting, she popped her head out and looked around. On the hard, wet ground, Grumpy lay still and prone. Beside him, Dopey ran in nervous circles, barking and jumping. Alarmed, Harley crawled out onto the metal of the dumpster.

"Hey, hey," she soothed. "Dopey, what is it? Is something wrong with Grumpy?" Dopey's head snapped around as he barked at her, and Harley couldn't tell if it was a _help us_ bark, or a _go away_ bark. Taking her chances, she slid closer to them.

"It's okay. What, what is it?"

He ran in another frantic circle. Finally, he sidled up to Grumpy, and Harley gasped. The side of Grumpy's stomach was matted with rainwater and blood. It oozed out of a two-inch gash. Grumpy's breaths were shallow, and a sound of alarm left Harley at the sight.

Her thoughts flew threw her brain in rapid succession.

 _What do I do?_

 _I have work in half an hour—_

 _What if he dies?_

 _I'm in enough trouble as it is with Arkham right now._

 _Who cares? Help him!_

Making up her mind, Harley jumped off the dumpster (an impressive feat in three-inch heels), and approached the two of them cautiously. Dopey's head swung between her and Grumpy, while Grumpy watched, eyelids drooping. When the bigger dog let her pass without any drama, Harley thanked her lucky stars _he_ hadn't been the one bleeding on the floor.

Harley knelt a foot from the injured dog and inspected the cut. It was messy and torn instead of clean and straight; not a knife wound, then. Wire of some sort? Dopey came up beside her and nudged her arm timidly. Taking a deep breath, Harley brought a hand to his head and scratched behind his ears.

"He'll be fine," she murmured, although she was only trying to convince herself.

The rain down beat on them, and Harley's white blouse stuck to her skin in wet clumps. Rainwater splashed on her glasses, and she shoved them up to rest on her head. What was she supposed to do? Just pick him up and take him to the vet? Call for an animal ambulance? Did they even _exist?_

Flustered and worried, Harley made a split decision. She turned to Dopey, and although she _knew_ he couldn't understand what she was talking about, said, "I'll be back—I'll grab my keys and then we'll take him to the vet, okay?"

Vaulting onto the bin, the blonde climbed back inside, stopping only to scoop up her bag and grab some chicken out of the fridge. Harley sprinted out the door and to her car, dumping her things on the passenger seat and running back to the alley. Dopey yipped at her reappearance, and Grumpy raised his head lazily in response, placing it back down when he saw it was just her. Seemed like he finally tolerated her presence—the real question was if he would let her touch him.

Shredded chicken pieces clutched in her hand, Harley reached out to him experimentally. Dopey popped his head over her shoulder, but Harley brushed him off lightly. She was going to need all the chicken she could find to bribe Grumpy into doing what she wanted. The injured dog sniffed at her hand before shoving his muzzle into it and the food disappeared within seconds. His tongue was warm and moist against her fingers.

 _Okay, good,_ she thought, _that's a good start._

As he licked her hand, Harley brought her other arm to rest on his back.

"Good boy," she murmured. "We're going in the car now to get you fixed up."

The dog tensed and a warning rumbled through his chest before Dopey whined at him. The growl died down and Grumpy lowered his head in what she could only take as surrender. A small pearl of worry eased from her chest. Giving him a little more chicken to munch on, Harley slid her other beneath him and gathered him to her as gently as she could manage.

 _Harley, this is ridiculous!_

 _You can't carry him—he's pretty much as big as you._

 _You're just going to make it worse._

 _Oh, shut up, okay? I'm desperate._

It was a good thing Harley lifted weights, because it felt like Grumpy needed to go on a diet. Grunting from the strain, Harley carried him to the car as Dopey followed close on her heels, then dived inside. Leaving a copious amount of chicken easily within Grumpy's reach, the young woman hit the back of her head on the car roof when she saw the bright blood glazed across her clothing. That was a lot of blood for a two-inch cut. That meant it was deep.

"That's…that is not good." She muttered to herself. He was losing blood faster than she had thought. An idea struck as Harley's eyes landed on her bag. Rifling through it, she found some nail scissors and used them to cut a wide strip off the bottom of her shirt. Next, cutting a similar sized strip off her skirt, Harley balled the piece of fabric up and pressed it against the oozing cut, attempting to staunch the blood flow. Grumpy snapped at her but she snapped right back. His foul temperament wasn't going to stop her this time. "Eat your chicken," she growled at him, as she circled the other piece of fabric across his stomach and tied each end together in a makeshift tourniquet.

See? Her medical degree hadn't been for nothing.

Slamming the car door behind her in a rush, Harley jumped into the driver's seat and stamped on the accelerator. She drove like a mad woman, running red lights and breaking speed limits, and arriving at the veterinary clinic in record time.

Leaving the two dogs in the car, she ran inside, all but smacking into the reception desk in her haste. "My—my dog," she panted, "He's in the car. He's been cut and he's bleeding and—" The freckled receptionist had looked horrified at Harley's state of dress (her clothes looked like she had taken a chain saw to them, and blood splatters covered the visible portion of her stomach), but was propelled into action by her words.

The receptionist ran into the surgery and came back not thirty seconds later with a stocky middle-aged man, and a short-haired, curvy, brunette woman holding a muzzle.

 _Oh, that's good,_ Harley thought distantly. _She's going to need it._

Harley raced them out to the car where the woman Harley had learnt was Doctor Anderson managed to secure the muzzle on Grumpy only after injecting him with a sedative. Harley held Dopey back as they watched his friend be carried inside the surgery.

* * *

Harley was left out in the waiting room with Dopey, an elderly man, and his young grandson who was holding a rabbit. Dopey licked his chops every time he looked at it. Without his friend to warn him off, the Doberman was quite the touchy-feely thing. He would burrow his head into Harley's lap and then subtly shift two minutes later like if he did it slowly enough, she wouldn't realise he was practically sitting on her. When his weight grew too much for her legs—he was even heavier than Grumpy—Harley slid him off gently, but kept his head in her lap. She wondered how long it had been since the two dogs had received any kind of human touch. Much too long, probably.

She had made a brief phone call to the asylum, informing the apathetic administrator she wouldn't make it in that morning, and would need to move all appointments to the afternoon. Her morning's absence meant she would either have to stay late to make up for it, or else go in on the weekend to finish up her various forms and filing.

 _Late night or weekend?_ Harley pondered.

 _Definitely late night._

 _Arkham won't be there that way._

 _No chance of running into you-know-who either._

The last thought swirled an array of mixed feelings inside her. What she did to the Joker the last time she'd seen him…suffice it to say, her name appeared in the dictionary under the word 'unprofessional'. She had been ruminating on it over the weekend. Yes, he had done something awful to her. Yes, he deserved what she did. But—and this was the thing Harley seemed cursed to lose sight of—he was mentally ill. He was _sick_.

The Joker had been reacting to feelings Harley assumed he had no experience with; attraction, desire, vulnerability. And instead of trying to help him like she should of, like _any_ type of doctor should of, she had just exacerbated the situation. She was a silly, silly girl. And even though deep down she knew it was what the Joker wanted, how he desired her to act, she felt—

Doctor Anderson walked out of the surgery room, followed by a younger man. "Good news," she said, smiling. "Your boy will be sore for a while, but he'll be just fine."

Knee wobbling relief shot through Harley as she stood. "Thank you," she breathed. "Thank you so much?"

"Our pleasure," Anderson said, bending down to scratch Dopey's head. "This is my assistant, by the way. Doctor Richmond." She gestured to the short male behind her.

Harley nodded in greeting and held her hand out for Doctor Richmond to shake. "I'm Harley," she said simply.

"Well, Harley, that was a nasty gash." The middle-aged doctor explained, "It looks like he got caught on something and opened himself up trying to wrench free. Barbed wire, perhaps, or something similar. Were you there when it happened?"

Harley shook her head.

"Believe it or not, this kind of wound isn't all that uncommon. I'm impressed you got that tourniquet on him; saved us from having to undergo a blood transfusion." Anderson eyed Harley's blood spattered skimpy outfit, amusement plain on her face. It didn't escape the blonde's notice that Richmond was checking out more than her outfit.

"Yeah," she replied, "he wasn't too happy about it."

"Hm," the older woman sounded in agreement, "which is why I'm so surprised you managed it. That's an incredibly well-trained dog you have." She eyed Dopey. "Make that two, actually. Where were they trained?"

"Where were they trained?" Harley repeated stupidly. Grumpy, an obedient dog? Not in a million years. "Um," she began brilliantly. "They were trained at…my sister's. In Brooklyn. Yep."

"Your sister owns a puppy school?" Doctor Anderson asked, eyes lighting. "What's it called?"

"Um," Harley stuttered again. "Uh, it's not _my_ sister's puppy school. That's…what it's called. My Sister's Puppy School."

At Anderson's confused expression, Harley blurted the first thing that came to mind, "It's a dog training institution catered for women who have dogs, y'know? There's this membership deal they have, and—and wine evenings where you can take your dog to socialise, and so you can just hang out with your, uh, sisters. That's…what the name means." Please, somebody kill her before she could open her mouth again.

"Well," Anderson replied dubiously, "that sounds very nice."

"Mmhmm," Harley agreed weakly. "Lots of fun."

"Good."

Awkward pause.

Anderson asked, "What are their names?"

Harley opened her mouth, but then shut it with an audible _click_.

 _Their names?_

 _I can't tell her I call them Grumpy and Dopey—that'd look so bad._

Harley's eyes darted furiously across the room to where an array of ads and pamphlets were stuck to the wall, desperate for any form of inspiration.

 _A dog walking flier—_

 _Local theatre show—_

 _Lawn mowing service—_

 _No, that one!_

A bright red poster tucked into the corner of the overflowing noticeboard depicted a couple of brightly dressed, smiling puppets. Two convenient names were printed on the top in bold red letters.

"Their names are Punch and...Judy."

The assistant, silent until now, raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "You named a male Doberman _Judy_?" He glanced up at the poster. "After the puppet show?"

Harley tongued her back molar and laughed off-pitch. "Yep. I just love the, uh, the puppet show." Her nose was going to start growing soon with all the lies she'd told in the past five minutes. She'd never heard of ' _Punch and Judy'_ in her life.

"Right," he drew out.

Doctor Anderson cleared her throat. "And which one is this fine boy?" She asked, referring to Dopey who was now sitting awkwardly on Harley's foot.

"Oh," Harley said, eyeing the dog affectionately. "Him? He's Punch."It may have been petty, but she thought calling Grumpy _, 'Judy'_ , was a fabulous form of revenge for the many times he had snarled at her.

Anderson cleared her throat, "Well, Judy is still unconscious, but once we've moved him out of the surgical room you'll be welcome to see him. This boy, too," he said scratching Dopey—no, _Punch's_ —chin. "He looks like he's missing his friend." He did, too. His earthy eyes were sad and nervous.

"He'll be fine once he sees Judy," Harley said, scratching behind his ears and trying not to smirk. Oh, Grumpy's new name was never going to get old. The two doctors left them soon after that, promising to come back once they'd cleaned up a little, so they could visit _Judy_. The little boy and his rabbit were called in soon after, the grandfather trailing slowly behind, and then it was only Harley and Punch left in the waiting room.

"Punch and Judy," Harley murmured, a smile engulfing her face as she studied the poster. "I like it."

* * *

Harley collapsed into the driver's seat, leaning her head back on the headrest tiredly. At Doctor Anderson's behest, Harley left Judy at the surgery so the doctors could keep an eye on him for the night. As Punch _refused_ to be separated from his friend, they had allowed him a little spot next to Judy's with a dog bed and water bowl. Harley was to pick them both up the following day. Whether she wanted it or not, these dogs were fast becoming hers; they had been for the past month, she supposed, but it was _real_ now. The thought simultaneously thrilled and terrified her.

They would cost her money— _had_ cost her money—and they would need dog food, chew toys, matching dog coats, not to mention the enormous veterinary bill she was going to receive. Just thinking about it made her shudder. Harley's apartment didn't allow pets, which was a line she had already crossed with the goldfish she had impulsively bought, lonely during her two week's absence from work. But a couple of dogs? How was she going to handle that?

Harley sighed. It didn't matter right now; she would figure it out. What she needed to do was get to work. She had a set of clothes there she could change into—one never knew when a patient would spit, or pee, or projectile vomit—and her lab coat buttoned up would provide sufficient cover for her bare thighs and stomach in the meantime.

Starting the engine of her little car, the young woman turned the radio on and played around with the channel until an eighties pop song blared through the speakers. Sick to death of being stressed and upset, Harley freed her curling hair of its ponytail, and belted her heart out the entire way to work.

* * *

Having reached the safety of her office with only a couple of perturbed glances thrown her way (she couldn't blame anyone—'drowned rat' would be a compliment right about now), Harley grabbed a set of new clothes from the cupboard. The metal pressed studs littered down her coat opened with a _snap_ , and Harley kicked her tall blue heels across the floor. Pulling her damp and bloodstained top over her head, she threw it straight into the rubbish, already feeling cleaner having been stripped of it. The skirt came off next, and Harley had just picked up her clean blouse—a pretty lilac thing with lacy sleeves—when the door swung open.

Harley shrieked, short and high-pitched, and clutched her clean blouse in front of her. "Get out!" She yelled. "Out, out, _out_." Each word was punctuated by a psychology textbook hurled at the door.

Monroe gaped at her before his brain seemed to catch up with the situation. He hugged his torso in a futile defence against her book throwing. "Sorry—I just, uh, I just wanted to…"

Harley, despite the fact it gave the man an ample view of her red lingerie covered derriere, bent at the waist to pick up her particularly pointy shoe and then flung it at him, aiming for his head.  
It wacked him solidly in the temple and he lifted a hand to cover his face.

"Sorry—I'm sorry," he cried and hastily shut the door.

"Knock next time, you _jerk_." Harley screamed and threw her other shoe at the door for good measure. She stood in the middle of her office, half naked and panting furiously, holding her now wrinkled shirt with trembling hands.

The scene replayed in her head—Monroe's yelps of pain as the books met their marks, the bruise that would develop from her shoe to his face—and her shoulders began to shake. Sitting heavily on the side of her desk, Harley snorted and giggled until her chuckles had turned into full on belly laughter. Clutching her stomach with one arm and slapping her thigh with the other, Harley laughed and laughed until tears started running down her cheeks in salty lines.

 _Did you see his face?_

 _He looked like he was going to wet himself, he was so scared—_

 _Maybe this means he'll knock the next time he enters somebody's office._

 _Yeah. What was he doing, anyway?_

The thought sobered Harley and her laughter died down as curiosity took its place. She dressed quickly, chuckling again when she had to retrieve her high heels from the doorway, and then opened the door to poke her head out into the corridor. The blonde smirked at the empty space; she had really scared him off then.

Good.

Smoothing her hair down and settling her glasses into place, Harley went to work. Phone calls, files, progress reports, and appointments—it wasn't until hours later that she had done enough work to warrant going home. It was an unavoidable fact that she'd have to stay late several nights this week due to the morning's fiasco, but tonight wasn't going to be one of those nights.

As she walked down the quiet halls of the asylum, an unwise thought lodged itself in her brain. The Joker was no longer kept in the underground facilities and it wasn't atypical for a patient's previous doctor to drop in for a quick visit every once in a while, provided the split had been a congenial one.

Wait, no. That made it sound like they were divorced.

Anyway, the point was that last time she had seen him, she had humiliated him in front of a room full of people, said people—herself included—now probably on his list of _who-to-kill_ if he ever managed to leave the asylum. Harley imagined the people set out in his head like a shopping list:

Peas (frozen)

Orderly (stabbed)

Eggs (free-range)

Crane (shot)

Grape soda (diet)

Harley (strangled)

Guilty to say, it was the last thought that really spurred her into damage control. Taking the wooden stairs up two at a time, Harley powerwalked to the high-security levels where violent patients were housed. A convenient necessity to treating the Joker was that her ID card still allowed her clearance, a little fact she had neglected to bring to Arkham's attention in their previous meeting. She swiped it at the entrance and the little light turned green in admittance.

She felt like such a rebel.

It was late enough that Harley only passed two other people on her way to the cell blocks, both nurses, both completely uninterested in her. Each room was eight by ten feet in size and had stark white walls—padded ones for the self-destructive patients. Each small space was filled with a bed, toilet and sink, all visible thanks to the thick glass built into each metal door.

After minutes of scouring the halls for his cell, Harley finally bit the bullet and asked a passing nurse which one was the Joker's. The willowy woman looked over her shoulder before answering, like Harley couldn't possibly be talking to _her,_ before saying guardedly, "The Joker? He's not housed with the violent patients. His doctor put him in the main cell blocks, I think."

Harley rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Of course, he did."

A tight 'thank you' and Harley was running back down the stairs.

 _Should have thrown my shoe harder._

 _Yeah, might have taken out an eye that way._

Down in the cell blocks that housed the majority of patients—the ones thought of as relatively _harmless_ —Harley flipped through the clipboard of cell numbers hanging on the wall. Her hands stopped when she came across Crane's name and number.

 _Cell 0363_

Huh. She hadn't known her friend had been placed in this division. There was nothing surprising or odd about it, but the thought just made her pause. Shooing the thought away she flicked through the pages until she found the Joker's number.

 _Cell 0801_

Memorising the number, she made her way down the corridor, heels clacking hard on the smooth floor. Eventually, Harley stumbled through the correct hallway; these cells were almost as far away from the central building as they could possibly be.

 _0601_

 _0701_

 _0801_

 _Ah-hah! Finally._

Striding up to the door to peer through, Harley blinked at what she saw. The Joker, tube of lipstick securely in hand, was drawing on the white plaster of the walls. The depth of his concentration was reflected by the fact he hadn't notice the sound of her approach. Several pictures already graced the wall: four small diamond shapes fit together to make a larger diamond; thick, curvy words layered on top of each other that she couldn't quite make out properly; and dozens of scribbled 'HAHA's. Watching him finish an elaborate letter 'J', Harley knocked on the door.

Quick as a snake, the Joker's head snapped to the entryway, a dark expression having settled on his face at the interruption. Though, when he saw who it was, his mood quickly changed. Dropping the lipstick and sauntering towards her, he rubbed his hands together excitedly. The Joker touched his forehead to the window of glass and smiled, shoulders rising to his ears.

" _Ah-ha. Ha. Ha."_

Oh, there it was again. The creepy laugh. She looked at him glumly and berated herself that now she was here, she had no idea what to say. And really, what _was_ she doing here? Trying to make peace and get some closure? Looking for answers? A part of her worried that he wanted this; that this was an extension of the feelings she had experienced before he attacker her, the countertransference. Another part—the _louder_ part— said it wasn't. It told her she was in control, and it was a good, _responsible_ thing to talk to him now, to share her thoughts with him.

Listening to that voice, and shrugging off the self-doubt, Harley said softly, "Hi, Mistah Jay."

"Hmm," he purred, " _Harley_." The thick glass muffled it somewhat, but holy mackerel, he had a nice voice. Made her feel all tingly. "What's a—a _good_ girl like you, doin' in a place like this?"

Harley cracked a slight smile. "You invited me remember? First time we met."

The Joker squinted at her and tongued his teeth. Cocking his head so the skin of his forehead—pressed against the glass—twisted and stretched, he mock-whispered, "You wanna come in? Got me a nice, new, shiny _crib_ I'm just _dying_ to show you."

Harley glanced behind him at the hard bed and metal toilet. "I don't know," she said, scratching her head, "it looks pretty standard to me. I like your pictures, though."

He ignored the compliment. " _Oh_. No, no, _no._ Harley-girl thinks her Mistah Jay is _cheap_. That he got nothin' to offer except the…the _standard_. I guess," he sung, eyes rolled to the highest corner of their sockets. "I _guess_ that makes _Harley_ -girl wrong."

"Uh-huh," she drew out. "Anyway. I just wanted to—wait, are those _real_?"

He was wearing earrings—pink gems set in silver. Their glimmer was near blinding in the sterile light of his room and each brilliant rock was the size of Harley's thumbnail. Her jaw was somewhere down at her feet as she laid a hand on the cool metal of the door to steady herself.

"You—they're—they're _diamonds_ , they're freaking real _pink_ diamonds."

He tapped his index on the glass between them. "Shh," he hushed. "Quiet, now _snookums._ Don't want someone overhearing, _do_ we?"

She shook her head absently, eyes stuck on his earrings. "How…how are you wearing those?"

The Joker brought his fingers to an earring. "Y'see, I stabbed this itty-bitty _hole_ in my ear…"

" _No._ " Harley said, shock turning to frustration. "You _know_ what I mean, Mistah Jay. How did you get them here, in the asylum?"

They would have cost him a small fortune—well, small for _him_. And there's no way she had ever seen him wear them before; she would have remembered. He giggled once, high and delighted, and lifted his face an inch from the glass. Lipstick residue remained on the bottom half, swirled red and greasy. The Joker watched her eagerly, anticipation building.

"How?" She asked heatedly again. "Are you blackmailing people to help you? Paying them off?" A thought occurred to her. "Is it Doctor Monroe? Is that why he lets you do whatever you want?"

He lifted his brows. " _No-o-o."_

"No? Then who gave them to you?"

The Joker hummed to himself and licked his lips. Abruptly, he slammed both hands on either side of the glass and gazed at her from beneath heavy-lids. "Tell ya _what,_ cupcake. How'd you like these pretty little rocks? All you gotta say is pretty little _please_ and they're all yours. Go on, say it. Say it, _say it_."

Harley levelled him with a look. "I don't want your earrings."

Well, she did. And she was going to have to confiscate them, anyway, him not being allowed jewellery and all. But still.

He breathed in deeply through his nose, and cooed, "But I wanna give 'em to you—give you something _twinkly_. All _you_ gotta do is say it."

Was he trying to distract her from her questioning? It wasn't going to work. "No," she replied. "Who gave them to you?"

He clenched his hands into fists, before springing them open and running them through his hair. Green strands fell stubbornly across his forehead. He brought a hand up and pointed at her damningly. "Now you gotta say it _twice_ as pretty next time."

 _What?_

 _What does he mean—_

Harley slapped a hand over her mouth and squeaked in protest as the Joker took a hold of one earring and tore it from his ear. The skin of his earlobe ripped, and blood swelled out to run in lazy tracks down his neck. He showed no sign of pain as he reached for the other ear.

"Wait," Harley shouted, pressing closer to the door. "Stop. What are you doing?"

He cocked his head towards her, giving a clear view of his bloodied side. He murmured sweetly, "Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty. C'mon Harley-girl, you know what comes next."

His hand lifted to the other ear again, and Harley blurted, " _Please."_

The Joker bit his bottom lip and looked at her expectantly.

"Please," she said again, "Mistah Jay, I love your earrings. Pretty please can I have them?"

He tongued his teeth thoughtfully.

" _Maybe_ ," he purred. "But you gotta _promise_ you'll wear them. I wanna see them on you. Every. Single. Day."

Harley nodded. "Yes," she said softly, "I promise."

"Good _girl_."

Calmly, he took the other one off, and then knelt to the slit in the door used to pass things in and out of the room, like food trays and such. The slit could only be raised on Harley's side, and so, hesitantly, the young woman lifted it up. His soft fingers met hers beneath the door, and she found herself wondering what his expression looked like behind the metal that was separating them.

Was he looking dangerous?

Smug?

 _Happy?_

Warm skin glided across hers as the Joker dropped the earrings into her open hand. Two of his fingertips traced up her middle finger lightly as he drew away, and a shiver ran through Harley's arm. She pulled her hand out and properly inspected the diamonds resting in her palm. Simple, round and elegant, they were women's earrings, no doubt about that. The Joker, it seemed, had a preternatural talent of making anything look good on him.

One was slightly blood spattered, and Harley mused that she had been exposed to an unusual amount of the red fluid for a typical Monday. She stood up to where the Joker was already looking through the glass at her.

"Thank you," she said, reeling from the fact she had a couple of pink diamonds held casually in her hand. "They're gorgeous."

He made a low sound in the back of his throat. "Put them on. _Wear_ them. Show me how—how _gorgeous_ they are."

Harley looked down the hall to where there was both a hand sanitizer and wet wipe dispenser. "Just hang on a second." She half ran to the machines and quickly set to work, wiping the earring clean of any blood, not wanting to risk infection.

Walking back, Harley took the small, gold hoops she was wearing out of her ears and replaced them with the diamonds, the weight settling comfortably in her ears. She pulled her hair back from her face, and cleared her throat. He stared at her, mouth slightly parted.

A little uncomfortable under his scrutiny—more so than she ever had been—Harley fought the urge to squirm. After long moments of silence, The Joker crooked his finger at her and leaned in close to the glass. She did the same. Their combined breath fogged up the bottom of the window. "Don't," he said measuredly, the words harsh and biting, " _ever_ take them off." There was no compromise in his penetrating eyes.

 _But I'll have to shower._

 _And sleep._

 _What if they don't match my outfit?_

Instead of voicing the thoughts she knew the Joker wouldn't like, Harley just nodded.

"Okay."

And just when Harley had turned around to leave, the Joker called out, "Oh, and _Harley."_ She stepped back to face him.

"Come back and _see_ me again, _won't_ you."

"Yes," she answered, and then smiled slyly. "I still owe you those bat shorts, remember? And I want some answers. So, yes. I'll be back."

* * *

Harley's excuse for why she had accepted the earrings didn't form until much later than it should have. _Patients at Arkham aren't allowed this type of jewellery in their possession_ — _plus_ , _it'll be easier to find out which shop they were bought from this way,_ she would think to herself _. And then they can tell me just_ _ **who**_ _bought them. Mystery solved, and all that._ But the young doctor knew the real reason she had accepted his gift so easily.

Partly it was because the Joker was going to hurt himself if she didn't, and no doctor should stand by and watch their patient do that. But him doing that—Harley suspected he experienced a kind of sick pleasure from the pain—had just let her admit to herself that it was all right to take them. And so, she did.

Because she wanted them.

Because it was _him_ giving them to her.

And because she knew it would make him happy.

* * *

 **Thanks so much for reading!**


	8. Chapter 8

The following evening resulted in both dogs lazing happily on Harley's couch while she baked. She had picked them up that afternoon from the veterinary clinic, both surprisingly ecstatic to see her, although Judy still sported a mild version of his usual moody attitude. The large cone around his neck which he seemed incapable of leaving alone probably wasn't helping. Each time either boy would go to bark or make a sound, Harley would quiet them with treats; something that would most likely turn counterproductive as they'd just keep barking for more, but she didn't know what else to do. The 'no pets allowed' rule, and all that.

As for what Harley was baking…

Suffice it to say she was feeling hesitant.

The young woman had kept her promise to the Joker as much as she was willing in not taking off her new earrings. They would rest safely in her bedside drawer when she slept or showered, but were otherwise her constant companions. Women, and even some men, had commented on them at work that day—' _don't they look wonderful against your hair,_ ' or _'they must have cost a fortune,_ ' and her personal favourite, " _You'd think they were made for you, they look so good."_ She had accepted the compliments with a secretive smile. And even though she was still suspicious of the Joker and his motives, Harley hoped that what she was making would be enough to express her gratitude to him.

* * *

"Are you winning?"

Crane looked up from his chess game.

Twenty or so people were in what the asylum called the 'common room,' a place patients were encouraged to relax and socialize. Large, dusty smelling couches were peppered across the room, as well as several tables and chairs. A television sat in the back corner, and there were bookshelves leaning against the cream walls, overflowing with books, games, and other miscellaneous activities.

Crane removed his steepled fingers from in front of his face, and raised his eyebrows. "There are no winners in life," he replied flatly, "all of us will one day succumb to the inevitable fear, pain and hopelessness we deserve until we are put out of our misery and slaughtered like the animals we are."

Harley blinked.

"Um. I meant your game."

He looked down at the chess board, at the pieces scattered across it. He only ever played by himself.

"Ah. I suppose."

Harley sat down slowly, opposite him.

"Are you feeling okay? That answer was a little…depressing."

Her friend took hold of a knight and thumbed it angrily. "I would be better," he said, nostrils flaring, "if _someone_ would stop hogging the blasted television for once and let me watch the stock market report." He was going to snap the horse's head off if he kept twisting at it like that. He continued, "If I am forced to sit through one more episode of that disgusting soap opera, I will gouge that _damn clown's_ _eyes out_."

 _Clown?_

 _Does he mean..._

Harley half stood and whipped round to face the T.V, her eyes catching on the back of the couch where the tip of a green head could only just be seen. A giddy sensation rose within her chest, and she bit the inside of her cheeks to stop the delighted grin threatening to emerge. This was _perfect._ Crane grunted again in annoyance and slammed the knight down on a pawn, muttering cutting remarks to himself.

Harley moved to the side and pushed the chair in behind her. "I'll be back. I'm going to go talk to him for a bit.

The thin man didn't look up from his game. "That would not be wise, considering the last time you saw him; I would steer clear if I were you."

 _The last time?_

 _Oh, right, the cafeteria._

"It'll be fine," she replied. "I won't be too long. I think."

"Your funeral," Harley heard him grumble a she walked off. She may have thought the same a couple of weeks ago—a couple of _days_ ago—but it felt like something had changed a little. Or maybe that was just her diamond earrings talking; she had always been a sucker for presents.

The Joker was leaning his elbows on open knees, hunching forward, and completely engrossed in whatever he was watching; a bad soap opera by the looks of it, like Crane had said. On the screen a man and woman were arguing while cheesy, sad music played in the background. The man, a green-eyed fellow who looked like he'd gone under the knife one too many times, went to stride away, but the woman, a full head shorter than him, embraced him from behind. Slowly, the man turned and returned her hug.

" _No-o-o_ , Ricky-boy," The Joker, brought his hands up in front of him, fingers splayed in frustration. "Fat girl met with—uh, _Howie_ at the _pool_ party last night. Fat girl's _lying_ to you."

Harley raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"She's not fat, she's pregnant."

The Joker froze for a split second before the all too familiar gesture of running his hands through his hair. He crooked his neck to the side, and smiled up at her, licking his lips in a way that made her wonder if he would rather be licking something else.

Nah.

Just liked the lipstick taste.

"But I agree with you," Harley continued, nodding, "I don't think she's telling the truth, either."

" _Hmm_ ," he hummed. "S'that right, Pumpkin?" He murmured, lovely voice near melting her insides to butter.

"That _is_ right, Cabbage." She returned, and took a seat next to him on the couch, about two feet away. She wiggled a little to get comfy, and grabbed a throw pillow which she hugged to her chest. His brows rose comically, and he pursed his mouth in an 'O' shape.

"Look at the little doc _-tor_ gettin' all warm and— _cosy_."

"Shush," she said, focusing on the T.V. "I don't wanna miss this." Casually, she swept a mass of yellow hair behind her ear, emphasizing the bright rocks that sat in her ears. He sidled closer to her and draped his bare arm across her shoulders, bringing his slender fingers to her ear and fondling the gem there.

Lazily, Harley slapped his hand away.

"Stop it," she said, "that tickles. And you're getting my favourite earrings dirty."

"Favourite," he purred and ran a deliberate finger down her neck.

"Seriously," she sputtered laughing, both ticklish and well aware their behaviour was becoming, for lack of a better word, _inappropriate_. She shuffled a little more to the side and craned her neck to face him.

"So, you like the soapies, huh?"

He sucked on a tooth and squinted at her.

She gestured to the T.V. "You know, the soap operas—what you're watching."

"I don't watch no _soap operas_." He looked mildly offended.

Harley looked at the screen again, to what was playing.

"Are you sure? Cause this show kinda looks like one."

"This," he said, pointing at the television, "ain't no _soapy_. Ricky-boy's _conned_ 'bout three people, fat girl's drug dealin' and Howie's getting ready to _chainsaw_ a guy."

Harley suspected he'd misinterpreted what exactly was happening in the show—from the sappiness of the current scene, a chainsaw act didn't quite seem plausible—but decided to just leave it be. His thoughts were amusing if nothing else.

"Right," she replied, unable to hold the smile from her face. "I see what you mean. That doesn't sound very 'soapy-ish.'"

"Mm," he grunted in agreement, smoothing his hair down again and going back to watching the program.

"Anyway," Harley continued, wanting his attention back, "I—I made you something. For the earrings. To say thank you, I mean."

His gaze swung round to hers, and the smile he bared displayed his metal teeth. "Honeypuff made somethin' for ol' Mistah Jay, did she? Ain't she _sweet_? So, _so_ , sweet." His breathing grew a little heavier and Harley could see the anticipation building in him. "Watcha got, baby? Tell me. Tell me, tell me, _tell me_." His knees bounced next to her on the couch, and he ran his hands up and down his legs impatiently, like to keep them still was impossible.

She chuckled, "Calm down, it's nothing that exciting. I like baking and remembered you saying something about missing the cookies they used to serve in the cafeteria, so I made you some." His blue eyes lit up and she said, "They're pink and blue with little sprinkles and everything."

The Joker brought a hand to his chin and put on a show of looking inquiringly at her person. He plucked the pillow off out of her hands, and when he found her lap empty, looked at her in exaggerated confusion.

" _We-e-ell?"_ He asked expectantly, "You ain't hiding them someplace _strange_ , are ya?"

"They're in my office," Harley shrugged, "I didn't know you were going to be here."

He moved closer to her, pinning her between his body and the blue couch's armrest. "You'll go get them for me, won't you, Doc _-tor_. I wanna show 'em off to all my—my _buddies_." He stretched one arm out, gesturing to the few patients on their right. "Show them just whoDoc _-tor's_ _pet_ is."

"Uh-huh," Harley drew out, eyebrow raised. The Joker watched her intently, waiting for an answer.

She relented and pushed his shoulder back gently so she could stand up without head butting him. "I'm going, I'm going," she said.

He rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Oh, _goodie_."

* * *

She was walking back down the corridor, plate of sugar frosted cookies in hand when she spotted Monroe leaning against the wall and filling out a sheet of paper. As though he had a 'Harley Radar' equipped to his belt, the moment she stopped in the hope of silently backtracking, he glanced in her direction, doing a double take and flushing lightly along his cheeks and neck.

 _Ho boy._

 _Awkward._

As amusing as his flustered apologies to walking in on her half naked had been two days ago, the amusement had dwindled slightly in the light of day; it had been a naked Harley nightmare come to life, and even if it wasn't _nearly_ as traumatizing as she would have presumed, she would rather pretend it never happened at this point. Tightening her grip on the plate, Harley took a courage gathering breath and walked up to him, a bounce in her step.

"Good morning, Doctor Monroe," she smiled at him, and the doctor watched her pass in quiet horror, as though scared another shoe was about to be launched his way.

 _Not that he wouldn't deserve it._

Harley had nearly made it to the common room door—six feet away at most—when he called out.

"Harley, wait!"

She pulled a face at the open doorway. She had been so _close_.

Reluctantly, she turned to face the attractive, older man.

"Yes, Doctor Monroe?" She asked, like she was completely ignorant of why he was talking to her. This conversation was going to be a painful, cringe festival, she knew it. He walked up to her and stopped a little too close for comfort, hemming in on her personal space. His mouth opened and then shut again, hesitation plain on his face.

"I just—well…" he stuffed his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat pointedly, "I'd like to apologize for the other day. I shouldn't have just barged in to your office like that." He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. "And I don't mean to embarrass you or make you uncomfortable by bringing it up again, but I _am_ sorry." He cleared his throat again.

Harley was caught between giggling like a school girl and running away in mortification. But, he _was_ being professional and well-mannered, and so Harley ignored both impulses to instead say with fake bubbliness, "That's okay. I know it was an accident—I was just shocked is all. Anyway, apology accepted so…" She smiled and went to make an escape into the common room, but he stopped her just before the open doorway with a hand on her arm.

"Wait," he said again, "I was hoping I could make it up to you."

She waved him off and gave a little laugh that sounded uncomfortable even to her own ears. "No, no, that's fine. Seriously, I got you pretty good with my shoe, so I think we're even."

Monroe looked as though he was about to protest before his eyes jerked up from hers to land darkly on something behind her. The fine hairs at the back of her neck rose and she knew who it was without having to turn around.

"You ain't trying to _sweet talk_ my Harley-girl, are ya, Willie?"

Harley rolled her eyes, and placed one hand on her hip. She turned to face the Joker, but took a surprised step back when she realized they were only centimetres apart, him leaning both arms against the doorjambs like a model posing for a photo shoot and effectively caging her in between both men. His heavy gaze met hers for a moment before sliding to the man opposite, and although his words had sounded teasing, there was no playfulness on his face.

Harley placed her back against the doorjamb next to the Joker's grinning hand, not wanting to give either male her back, but still perversely curious to see what drama would unfold and how the Joker's new, more experienced doctor would handle it.

Monroe recovered quickly enough, focusing on the Joker with a slightly pained smile.

"Not at all," he replied, voice tight like it was holding back some tidal wave of emotion. "We were just talking is all."

The Joker hummed high in his throat and cocked his head disbelievingly.

"Didn't _sound_ like that." He smiled suddenly, an awful, threatening smile, "You ain't _lying_ to me, Willie? Ain't nobody likes a liar," he sung.

Monroe locked his jaw and ground out, "I was apologising. Decent human beings are familiar with the concept."

Harley's jaw dropped a little at the obvious insult.

 _Dude, what are you doing?_

 _Why are you antagonizing him?_

 _Now he's going to ask questions!_

The Joker raised his eyebrows and repeated, " _Apologising?_ You do somethin' _bad_ then, Doctor? You hurt little Harley-girl's feelings?" His hand had come to rest on her shoulder as he spoke, and Harley ducked under it, so both Monroe and her were facing him straight on from the hallway. The Joker looked at her blankly, then his hand, then Monroe.

The blonde man started to say something, to spit out some excuse, but the Joker sighed angrily and hummed a growl under his breath.

"What,"—he walked to Monroe, and slid his pale palms intimately across the man's shoulders—"did you"—dragged them down his arms—" _do_?"

The last word was punctuated by the Joker's hands taking violent hold of Monroe's face where he thumbed the tell-tale flush on each cheek before the doctor jerked his head away.

 _Okay_ , Harley thought a little panicked.

 _This is probably a good time for some intervention._

"Mistah Jay," Harley half-shouted trying to keep her co-worker from digging himself a deeper grave. She grasped hold of the patient's arm and all but shoved the plate into his stomach. "I got them, see? Let's go try one." The Joker looked down at them, like he indeed hadn't noticed them in her arms before. A satisfied smile split his face and he laughed jarringly as he scooped them up.

" _Ah-ha. Ha. Ha."_ He splayed his hand out to the side and shook it like a jazz hand, gesturing to Harley but speaking to Monroe. "She's so _good_ , ain't she, Willie? So—willing and _thoughtful_."

At his very best, the Joker was exasperatingly difficult, but the black look Monroe threw his way was not only an over-reaction, but an expression Harley felt was completely out of character. Sure, she thought the other doctor was an idiot, but he was pleasant and had apologised to her when he was in the wrong. Yet here he was, glaring furious daggers at the green haired man like he'd like to add a litre of bleach to his prescription. And besides, it was his own stupid idea to have the Joker roaming free of his cell, so it's not like he had a right to complain.

Harley tried to defuse the heavy atmosphere with flippancy, "Yeah, yeah, it _was_ nice of me, wasn't it? Okay, let's go—my break will finish soon and I want to see what happens with Ricky and his lady friend."

The Joker's face whole appearance was smug as he basked in his gift and forgot all about the apology Monroe was giving her (and thank whoever was listening for that, because it would _not_ have turned out well—he seemed to have a jealous streak a mile wide), and he walked inside the room without a backwards glance. She gave Monroe a little wave and he nodded back before striding down the way he'd followed her, clutching the paper he had been filling out so hard his knuckles were white.

Harley shook her head.

 _Boys._

* * *

The Joker had moaned so loudly at the taste of Harley's cookies, she thought she would _die_ of embarrassment. There was twelve of them on the plate, and Harley—stupidly, she realised now— had thought to offer one to an orderly guarding the patients. The Joker slapped it out of the man's hand, stuck it in his mouth faster than Harley had time to blink, and spent the rest of the T.V episode sulking that she'd tried to give away one of _his_ cookies. She had winced at the orderly and mouthed a little 'sorry,' sinking back into her seat.

Of course, she should have known the Joker didn't share.

When it was time for her to go back to work, she left him with a promise she would see him again soon. He grunted—still pouting, the big baby—and mumbled incoherently, his mouth full of light blue frosting and sprinkles.

Crane's mood hadn't improved in the thirty or so minutes that had passed, but he had the decency to tell her she still looked a wreck and should go home early that night.

Oh, the concern of the criminally insane—made her feel so good about herself.

* * *

It had grown dark outside when Harley heard the first scream. Screams were not atypical in her line of work—which, yeah, made her sound like an axe-murderer or something—and so she hardly paid it any attention and instead took another sip of her hot chocolate. Her thoughts had been up and down about staying for another late night, especially with the dogs left outside in the cold by themselves, but she really _was_ behind in her work thanks to Monday morning's debacle, and the sooner she got everything finished, the sooner she could slack off a bit.

Another scream cracked through the silence.

Harley raised her eyes to the door.

 _Poor lady._

 _And poor...man?_

The screams hadn't come from the same person, which again, wasn't atypical, as one screamer tended to set the rest off, but there was something about these screams that made Harley feel particularly unsettled. Something akin to abject terror. Harley got up from the desk, and set her blue pen down.

Another person screamed.

Then another.

 _What the hell?_

Four screams turned into eight, which turned into sixteen, which multiplied again and again until it was like a chorus of dread echoing through the asylum halls, assaulting her ears and crushing her heart so heavily, she thought it might burst from the awful pressure.

Harley rushed to the door, throwing it open so hard it bounced against the door stopper, and sprinted down to the first floor where she froze in shock. Dozens upon dozens of people, both patient and doctor alike were wide-eyed and shrieking, some huddling in corners muttering to themselves, others punching and fighting at invisible foes. A red mist covered them, and Harley coughed, covering her mouth and nose at the acrid taste that exploded along her taste buds and clawed down her veins.

Not knowing what else to do, Harley backed up the stairs until she could pull her eyes away from the horror that was unfolding, and ran up them as fast as she could. They moved under her feet, and she stumbled, falling onto their hard and uneven surfaces and losing a shoe in the process. She kicked the other one off and started crawling up the stairs.

The red mist grew thicker, following her and teasing her until she thought her eyes must be coated in blood, because it was the only colour that existed in the world.

Something brushed by her ankle, cold and slimy and shuddering, and she shrieked, blindly scrabbling to get away. The stairs she couldn't see transformed into jagged rocks that bit and tore at her beneath her stockinged feet and in the distance she could hear waves crashing against the sand, waves that _knew_ she couldn't swim but beckoned her towards them all the same.

Painfully, _achingly,_ she reached the reached the top of the cliff she had been climbing and the world was made clear again, although it was only a brief moment of clarity. A hallway was in front of her, one that seemed endless and twisted, much like the inside of a labyrinth. She ran down it wildly, her breaths coming out in sobs, and a cold sweat embracing her from head to toe. It was dead-end after dead-end and finally, when she couldn't handle it anymore, when the crashing of the waves in her ears was joined by a murmured cacophony of voices, the young woman collapsed against the wall, a babble of pleads falling uselessly from her mouth.

Figures stumbled and crawled past her huddled form, some with their eyes and mouths sewn shut, some with glowing red eyes and forked tongues, others with no face at all. Through it all, the blonde pulled at her hair and bit her forearm to keep the screams at bay. Only when blood started running down her arm to make a pool around her deep enough to drown in did she crawl to the other side of the maze.

 _It hurts,_ she thought.

 _Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop._

She smacked her head on the side of the wall and ran her fingernails down it, letting out a wordless shriek of terrified agony.

 _Make it stop, stop, stop, stop._

A figure, tall and blurred, appeared suddenly from one of the dead-ends and she huddled into herself, biting her arm again.

 _Stop, stop, stop, stop._

The shape approached her slowly and she shoved her forehead against her knees, not wanting to see. Noise came from it, different than the other noises of panic and despair, and the blonde fisted a hand violently in her hair, the pain a useless distraction.

 _Go away, go away, go away._

It didn't listen to her muffled begs, nor her inner pleadings. Instead it grasped her under the shoulders with talons that bit mercilessly into her skin and lifted her up to slam her against the wall. The young woman's swollen eyes burst open and she _screamed_ at the man, the _clown_ , holding her up. His hair was green and shaggy, and blood coated his mouth and cheeks like he had just partaken a feast of internal organs. His eyes were feral and bloodshot, his clothes ripped and splattered in the same wet blood that smothered his lips.

She struggled against his grip, smacking uselessly against his arms, and her entire body trembled. The clown slung her tightly against his body and carried her back down the cliff, plunging them into the haze of red. He took her lower than she had been before, down, down, down into a dark room full of black spiders that made her thrash even harder. When she screamed in this room, hers was the only one.

The clown put his bloodied mouth to her ear, whispering vehement words she understood but couldn't grasp the meaning of.

"It'll _help,_ " he said to her with his sandpaper voice. "Ain't no picnic, but daddy's gonna _fix you_."

Upturned, rusty nails appeared and disappeared on the table the clown strapped her down to, and she stayed as still as she could, fearful one would stab into her if she moved. The figure towering over her said something else but she couldn't remember what it _meant_ so she just stared at him, crying and almost sick.

A sound ripped form within the clown, a growl that shook the foundation of the room, and he placed something slick and heavy in her mouth before leaning behind her to pick up—

Two silver snakes with black holes for eyes slithered and squirmed in his hands, and the young woman forgot all about the nails as he brought the reptiles to her head. They bit her temples and transferred a poison so raw, vicious and _torturous_ , that after seconds of silent, brutal pain, she lost sense of _everything_.

All she felt was blood-curdling agony.

All she tasted was blood and dirt.

All she heard was crackling laughter—and the _voices_.

And when a giant bat with spike tipped, membranous wings flew over her nailed table and into the clown, it felt natural to give up the fight. So, with no resistance at all, she listened to those beckoning voices and did what they asked.

Harley fell willingly into the swirl of black and red and green and knew it was forever too late to look back.

* * *

 **So, if anyone is terribly confused right now and has no idea what just happened, don't worry; Harley's in the same boat. I bet if you really thought about it though, you'd be able to figure it out ;) Hopefully it wasn't _too_ confusing!**

 **This here marks the end of part one, I suppose. Got some fun stuff coming up!**

 **Thank you for reading, and I really hope you enjoyed it. See you next chapter!**


	9. Chapter 9

Harley awoke to the sound of beeping.

The abrasive smell of disinfectant was thick in the air. A thin mattress and stiff fabric made up her bed, the material crinkling as she shifted in discomfort. Groggy, she made to rub her eyes. A pinprick of pain lanced through the back of her hand and she yelped, the surprised sound coming out raspy and weak.

Squinting down at the appendage—it was so _dark_ in here—she tilted her head in confusion. Something sharp had been placed and securely taped to the back of her hand, the tube it connected to leading to a bagged, clear liquid. Small rows of bandages decorated her arm, one wrapped around her wrist, the other past her elbow and disappearing into her…ugly blue dress?

 _Nuh-uh._

 _That's not what I was wearing when I left the house this morning._

Harley blinked.

 _House? What house?_

She searched her memory, but came up blank. Looking around the dark room for some clue of where she was or what she was doing, the young woman's confusion only grew. There was a couch in the corner and a little table with wheels that fake flowers rested on. A sink was built into the side of the wall, and there was a door to the left of her that let in a crack of dim light.

The beeping noise that had woken her grew faster and Harley snapped her head to the side, searching for the cause. A machine sat next to her bed, the screen showing fun lines of green and blue traveling up and down, up and down. Harley watched them for a few seconds, mesmerised. They were so _pretty_.

She sat up to lean her back against the wall and tucked her hand underneath her chin, content to watch the colours glide across the screen, a dazed smile pasting itself absently to her face. It wasn't until she noticed the exciting machine was hooked up to _her,_ that she grew puzzled again. What _was_ this? Annoyed that she couldn't bring an answer to mind, Harley ripped the tape and needle thing out of her hand, causing blood to trail slowly down her fingers.

The sticky leads that came from the noisy machine came off next—which turned the beeping into a low drone—and Harley threw her legs off the bed. Her knees shook as she stood, and she felt a little lightheaded and sore, but otherwise fine. Walking to the door, she ducked her head out to the white walled corridor. A man outside her room dressed in a baggy blue shirt and trousers—which were doing his pudgy build no favours—flinched when he saw her.

"Hello!" She said cheerfully, though her throat felt dry. Maybe this person could help her!

"Whoa, whoa," he exclaimed as he hovered in front of her, "you shouldn't be moving around."

Harley looked down at herself. "Oh. Um, why?" She pointed at him, "I mean, you're moving around. Why can't I?" The man herded her gently back over to the bed as she spoke.

He said, "I'll be back—I need to go get the nurse. Wait here, okay? You going to be okay?"

Harley nodded, sitting back on the bed.

"Good, just—just wait here."

The man with the ugly clothes—uglier than her _dress_ —sped out the door.

"Well," she huffed, "that was rude."

Completely ignoring what he had asked, she walked out the door and down the first set of stairs she found. Harley kept her eyes peeled, ducking into an open doorway each time a person walked down the hallway. She didn't quite know what the problem was, but she knew she didn't want to be in this place that smelled offensive and looked like the setting of a horror movie. She made it to the bottom floor without a hitch and when she found a heavy door that read 'emergency exit', she whispered an emphatic, _"Yes."_

That was until the icy wind hit her.

"No, no, _no.,"_ she hissed and tried to open the door that had slammed shut behind her, pulling and tugging the handle.

 _Let me back in, you stupid thing._

What use was the door if they locked it on the outside? Harley grunted and hit it angrily before wrapping her arms around her chest and walking to the front of the building. It was night time and she could see glittering lights in the distance. Trees and bushes rustled as the breeze ran through them, and the blonde looked around, a little lost as to what she should do. Making her way to the road, she spied the tall sign at the front of the building.

 _ **Gotham General Hospital**_

Harley smacked her forehead with an open palm.

 _O-o-oh, it was a_ _ **hospital**_ _!_

 _Why didn't the guy just say so?_

 _Well, he probably thought the heart monitor and hospital gown gave it away._

She frowned. Where did _that_ snarky voice come from? And so what if she was a little muddled at the moment—she had been at the hospital, so she must have been sick. But…did that mean she should go back in?

She considered.

 _I feel fine now—although it_ _ **is**_ _freezing._

 _And that guy's probably worried that I left like that; but the whole thing was so strange!_

 _I could go home. Wherever that is._

Before Harley could finish convincing herself one way or the other, the sound of crushing gravel drew closer and when a horn honked behind her and she jumped, startled.

"Hey, lady," a voice barked and she whirled around. "Get off the road!"

She looked down at her bare feet to where she was walking on the road.

Oops. She wasn't meant to do that.

"Sorry!" She called, and then had an idea. Hopping over to the driver's side (the ground was too rocky for her to run smoothly) she poked her head through the open window and smiled at the oily man inside. He had long brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail and a hooked nose that had been broken at least once.

"Hi," she smiled.

He studied her, his bloodshot eyes moving from her face down to the visible portion of her body.

"I just got out of hospital," she explained.

"Yeah." The guy said. "You, uh, need a lift somewhere?"

She inhaled excitedly, "Really? Really, really, really? You'd do that?"

His eyes ran over her face again.

"Sure. Hop in."

She clapped happily and went to the other side of the car. It was old and the paint needed to be touched up, but the inside was clean and she was out of the cold.

"Where to?" He asked, and Harley made a guilty sound.

"That's the thing, see—I don't really remember. Can we drive around a little, see if it jogs my memory?"

He scratched his shoulder beneath his ratty, blue shirt and asked, "Need somewhere to stay?"

 _Aww, he's so nice._

 _No, Harley. Warning bells, girl—where are your warning bells?_

 _Oh, shush. He's just a big sweetie pie, is all._

"That would be _amazing_ ," she blurted.

His gazed raked over her stomach and legs, and he sniffed loudly. "Seat belt."

"Oh, yeah." Harley laughed, reaching back to grab it. "Silly me."

They drove without conversation for a while, the young woman humming a happy little tune under her breath, the guy throwing her sideways glances every once in a while.

"So," he said finally, "what's your name?"

"Oh, I didn't introduce myself—sorry. I'm Harley."

He waited another second, then raised his eyebrows.

"You got a last name with that?"

The blonde's brow furrowed and she tapped a thoughtful finger against her lips.

"Quin…something." She shrugged, "I dunno. Can't remember."

The guy smirked. "Harley _Quinn_? What are you, a stripper or something?"

"Hmm, the 'or something'—or I mean, I _might_ be a stripper, but I don't think so." She cocked her head and bit the inside of her cheek. "I think I'm a doctor. Or that kind of thing, anyway. What about you, what's your name and what do you do?"

"Rob. And I'm in the delivery business."

"Hey, that's cool!" She smiled at him again. "Nice to meet you, Rob. Thanks again for helping me out."

One corner of his mouth lifted as he stared out at the road. "No problem."

* * *

"So, this is your place?"

The street they had parked in was quiet, the occasional car or drunken stumbler its only disruption. The building they were making their way up to was a two-storey, brick monstrosity that was uglier than Harley's hospital gown. Rats sniffing around the doorway scurried away as they approached.

"And what part of town is this, anyways?" She asked looking dubiously at the other buildings lining the street. They weren't in any better shape.

"The Narrows," Rob said simply, and then looked at her like he thought it might mean something.

 _The Narrows, the Narrows,_ she thought _, sounds familiar._

They had crossed a bridge on the way there that had _definitely_ been familiar, but other than that, nothing had kick started Harley's memories. She wasn't concerned, though; she would figure it out. It would be fine.

He opened the door and let her in, revealing the inside to be in no better state than the outside. Clothes were scattered across the floor and there was a foul, wet grass smell that seemed to be infused in everything. The stained, cream carpet was rough beneath Harley's feet and she wondered a little belatedly if it would have been a better idea to have just spent the night outside somewhere. Probably more hygienic, at least.

The wide room she walked into had a brown couch, an old television and various potted plants hugging the corners of the rooms.

"You have _plants_ ," she said delightedly, "I always wanted plants, but I never had enough space." She snapped her fingers, "Hey, I remembered something! This is _great_. What kind of plants are they?"

Rob looked at her like she was dumb. "Are you serious?"

She shrugged. "Um. Yes?"

He shook his head. "Wait here." He walked into an adjacent room and shut the door behind him.

"Okie dokie," she called out behind him, feeling a bit of déjà vu from the hospital. Doing as she was told this time, she walked around the room, stickybeaking through the stuff littered on the ground. She discovered loose bits of paper with illegible notes scribbled on them, DVDs, shoes, a lighter, and—

Harley gasped, "Is that a signed limited edition baseball bat from last year's Gotham Knights Verses Metropolis Meteors game? I was at that game!" She clapped delightedly and spun once on the balls of her feet. "That is so _cool_."

"You don't remember your own last name, but you can remember that?"

Harley turned around as Rob came back into the room. She pointed at her head, and laughed, " _Right_? Ain't it just the weirdest thing?"

His movements were more lethargic than moments ago, his eyes brighter. "Yeah. Weird."

She picked up the bat and inspected it.

"Look, _everyone's_ signed it. Morgan, Reynar, Bennick—" A hand came to rest on Harley's shoulder, a hand that spun her around and slammed her back into the wall. Harley let out a startled scream and the bat rolled out of her hands, landing with a muffled _thump_ on the floor.

Rob—greasy, smelly, brown haired Rob that had _helped_ her—pinned her against the wall with his hands and crowded her personal space. His vile breath rushed over her.

"Let's talk payment for staying the night."

' _You and me need to have a teensy. Tiny. Talk._ '

The memory hit Harley harder than a steam roller, so much so that she couldn't find her voice. She had been in a situation like this before, she was _sure_ of it. Images flashed through her mind: a metal table, the flash of green, an empty syringe. Taking her silence for passiveness, he muttered, "Good."

' _Hmm, Good girl.'_

Rob's hand slid down her shoulder to palm her breast.

"Don't worry," he whispered, "I'll make sure you enjoy it."

' _Come_ _here_. _Let your Mistah Jay look after you_.'

The name was enough to jolt her into action.

She grasped his shoulders, digging her purple, chipped nails into the skin and brought her knee up as hard as she could into his stomach. He doubled over, winded, clutching at his stomach and she leapt to the ground, going straight for the wooden baseball bat. His fingers wrapped around the back of her leg and she yelped. She looked back to his crouched, panting form, and tried to pull her leg out from under him.

 _What are you doing?_ A voice screamed at her.

 _You're a gymnast—do some freaking gymnastics already!_

It was like a light-bulb had blinked on above her head.

 _Oh, yeah._

Setting her hands firmly beneath her like she was about to do a push up, she sprung her body up and twisted _,_ kicking her free leg out and smacking her heel across his nose. A satisfying crack rang out, and he swore, dropping to the ground and cradling his nose. Harley picked up the bat and stood, breathing heavily. She pointed it at him.

"You sayin' something?"

Tears streamed down his face and he shook his head, glaring at her.

"Yeah. I didn't think so."

Things were coming back to her; an apartment, an office, cookies and lipstick. And she could slap herself for coming home with this loser, because now that she was thinking more clearly, it was obvious his 'delivery business' was of the drug dealing kind.

 _Again, Harley. Duh._

 _If you're so smart, then why didn't you say anything?_

 _Oh, I'm sorry, did you wanna sleep out in the cold?_

 _Would you rather have this guy feel you up?_

She huffed.

Voices wouldn't stop arguing.

But their incessant chatter was only background noise the moment; the idea of this ' _Mistah Jay'_ guy hung heavily on her thoughts. Memories of him were so close it felt like she could reach out and touch them, but each time she tried they would slip away. Harley stamped her heel in annoyance and directed her attention back to the would-be attacker.

"So, like, is this a usual thing for you? Picking up helpless, pretty girls on the side of the road and then attacking them, because I gotta tell ya—"

She was interrupted by Rob reaching behind him to a grab an empty pot and hurling it at her. She squawked like a chicken in surprise and ducked to the side, narrowly avoiding the flying object.

' _She flung her shoe at him, aiming for his head where it smacked him solidly in the temple.'_

The image of a high heel arcing through the air ran through her mind, but she waved it away.

 _Not now, memories._

 _Yeah, kinda busy here._

Rob twisted around again to pick up another one, but Harley got to him first. With an impressive battle cry, she pulled the wooden bat back and swung, hitting him solidly in the back of his cranium like it was a ball instead of his head. The sound the impact made was loud and ugly, yet oddly satisfying, and Harley had an errant thought that if she never fully remembered who she was, at least she could make her living as a baseball player.

Yucky, smelly, traitorous Rob dropped face down to the floor, the blood oozing from his nose staining the dirty carpet even further.

"Eew," she muttered. "Gross." The young woman slid the trusty bat over her shoulders and looped her arms around it, inspecting his motionless body.

Was he…dead?

Harley didn't think so. If she squinted hard enough, she could see his chest rise and fall minutely. Still, she had better make sure. Rolling him onto his back with her foot, she kicked him squarely in the man nuggets. Even unconscious his face crumpled and a low moan escaped him.

Yep. Not dead.

"But you _should_ be for what you tried to pull," she admonished him, "but since you got me out of the cold, I'll let it go. Just this once though, y'hear?" She nudged his leg. "Don't do it again. Or Batsy and me will be back." She patted the bat happily as though it were a pet.

 _Bat_ , she thought, her forehead wrinkling. Something else was familiar about the word, but the fleeting thought vanished before she could fully discover it.

 _Argh. This is so frustrating._

Letting out a resigned sigh, she searched around the apartment and found a polar fleece jacket that, although was far too big for her—and truthfully, really ugly—kept her warm. She also pulled on a pair of woollen socks that almost reached her knees, and prayed that they were clean. She would have stolen his shoes as well, but they were miles too big. The last thing she tried to find were his keys. His pockets, the bedroom, the floor, the _bathroom_ ; it was like he knew she would try to steal them and so purposely hid them somewhere the sun would never shine.

Perhaps she should have hit him harder.

She supposed there was only one thing for it; she was going to have to steal a car. The concept made her feel slightly guilty, but she shook it off. These were desperate times, after all.

 _Do you even know how to drive?_

 _Yeah. Well, I mean, probably. Who doesn't?_

Warm, but looking like a social outcast in her makeshift outfit, Harley left the dilapidated apartment, making her way outside. The sun was beginning to rise and dawn was close to breaking, the small bit of light doing nothing to improve Gotham's litter ridden streets. The blonde placed a hand atop her forehead like she was a sailor looking into the distance, and the other on her hip. She inspected the various cars parked around.

 _Eeny, meeny, miney, moe_ …

She was about to head over towards a cute little silver thing when she realised she had a slight problem.

 _Um. How do I do this?_

An exasperated sigh sounded through her mind _._

 _I believe, Harley, the correct term is 'hotwire.'_

Well. That wasn't very useful.

She'd have to ask for some help. Looking around again, she spotted a man leaning against the side of a building wrapped up in dirty old blankets that were fraying at the edges. His beard was long and greasy, his eyes half closed and unfocused like he was intoxicated, which he might well have been—several bottles were on the ground around him, most of them empty. He looked sad and tired and Harley felt bad for bothering him, but there was no one else around so he'd have to do.

She approached him, an open smile on her face.

"Hello? Sad looking homeless man?" He looked at her. "Hi! Sorry to bother you, but can I ask a question? You know how to hotwire a car by any chance?"

He stared. Shook his head.

"Oh." she said, disappointed. "Well, you know anyone that does?"

Another head shake.

"Oh well," she shrugged, "thanks anyway." She was about to walk off when she had a thought.

"Hey!" she called out again, "I'll be right back! Don't go anywhere, kay?"

Placing the bat next to him, she sprinted back into Rob's house. An impish smile on her face, she gathered up the nicest looking clothes she could find, as well as a pair of shoes, a jar full of dollar bills, a bag of chocolate bars and energy drinks, and some blankets.

Sticking her tongue out at the prone figure splayed in the living room on her way out, she returned to the homeless man and said, "Here are some essentials! Oh—and if you want somewhere to stay for a while, that house I just went in is probably free. There's an unconscious man on the floor, but just lock him in the basement or something and he shouldn't bother you."

The bearded man responded slowly, searching her face for any trace of deception.

His gaze sunk to the pile of things.

Flicked back to the smiling young woman.

And then, with a brilliant, toothless smile, he gave her a thumbs up.

She giggled into her hand and grabbed the bat from beside him. "Bye, then. See you later!"

Harley meandered around the streets for a little while after that, looking in dirty shop fronts and seeing if anything rang a bell. She walked straight past a graffiti covered alley, and then backed up suddenly, watching a violent scene play out in front of her.

A bulky, tattooed man held a gun to the head of a smaller, ratty looking man and demanded his wallet, which the smaller man fumbled for. Bulky man snatched it and his victim bolted in the direction away from Harley, which was a mistake, because he received two bullets in the back of him for his trouble. Harley winced as his body smacked across the concrete and convulsed.

 _Ouch._

 _But what good timing!_

 _Harley, no, what are you—_

"Excuse me," she called out to the man holding both the gun and the wallet. He whirled around and pointed the gun at her, eyes wide. His head was shaved and he wore nondescript black clothes with sneakers. Tattoos snaked up his neck to cave in on his face, and his nose was pierce through the septum. Harley looked over him properly and decided she approved; this guy had character.

"Hi," she continued, "I'm Harley." She nodded her head towards the man bleeding out, "Nice shot."

He eyed her, a mixture of bewilderment and suspicion in his expression. His voice was gruff and saturated in hostility when he asked, "You want something, little lady?"

"Well, I was just walking by, y'know, when I saw you shoot dead guy over there, and so I was just wondering—"

He interrupted her, waving the gun around, "The hell's wrong with you, blondie? You got a death wish?"

"Um, _no"_ she said firmly, shifting the bat onto her shoulders, "definitely no. Look, I wanted to make doubly sure, that's all."

"Of _what_?" He demanded and shoved the wallet inside his back pocket, his movements agitated and jerky.

 _O-o-oh, he's about to do a runner._

 _Yeah, either that or blow your limited brains out._

"That you're a _criminal,_ of course."

He waved his arms again, "Are you serious?" He looked around like he was expecting cameras to be hidden between the bricks of the buildings. "I kill a man and you check with me if I'm a criminal? What kind of chick are you—you crazy or somethin'?"

She slouched in relief. "Hey, that's great. You know how to hotwire a car?"

* * *

Turns out Bulky man _did_ know how to hotwire a car.

When he told her his name Skinner, Harley looked at him in disbelief and before she could help it, asked, "Did your mum call you that? Seriously? And I thought Harleen was bad." It took her a moment to process that she had just remembered her full first name (although she wished it had stayed forgotten), and another to register the offence on his face. He had then mumbled a story about it being from his gangster brotherhood or whatever—she had no idea who he was talking about, but smiled and nodded anyway.

Skinner, after making the special effort to insult her choice of wardrobe, then ignored her suggestion of stealing the silver car she had liked and opted instead for a black sedan that was as dirty as it was boring. They drove around for a while, time in which Harley discovered he preferred football over baseball (she asked when he was eyeing off her bat), was a terrible singer (she turned the radio off when she couldn't take any more) and had a new girlfriend called Sally (whom he wouldn't shut up about).

It was pairing up to turn into a beautiful friendship until Harley shouted at him to slam on the brakes, effectively cutting their bonding time short. They were in a part of the city that looked _way_ more high-class than where the hospital or Rob's place had been and the young woman rolled down the car window to stick her head out, her attention focused solely on the purple lighted building opposite.

"Grin and Bear it," she read to herself. Twisting around uncomfortably, she asked, "Hey, Skinner, you know this place?"

He raised an eyebrow, and his mouth drew into a tight line.

"Yeah," he grunted. "Never been inside, though."

She cocked her head. "Why not?"

"Damn lady, you're strange. You think I want to go hang out with the _Joker_? Robbery and the odd homicide are good and all, but that in there's a whole new breed of whacked."

Harley froze.

 _The Joker_.

 _Mistah Jay._

Thoughts and images and conversations ran through her head, green, white and black melding together and overwhelming her until she thought she might pass out. Bringing a hand to her temple she said, "I thought—I thought he was locked up." How did she know that?

Skinner shrugged tightly, his broad shoulders hunched in the tight space. "He _was_ till a couple of days ago. Took the chance to escape when the whole fear gas thing went down."

Harley stared at him. "Fear gas?"

He squinted at her. "You live under a rock? Is that it?"

When she didn't answer, he explained. "That Scarecrow guy somehow got his toxin stuff all through Arkham Asylum. Batman turned up and the Joker hasn't been seen since."

"What about Crane?" she whispered.

He looked at her funny, "Who?"

She corrected herself, "Scarecrow. What happened to Scarecrow?"

He shrugged again. "Gone, I guess. Haven't heard anything."

She exhaled loudly. Things were starting to make more sense; She _was_ a doctor, she remembered that now. She tried to think of the night Skinner was talking about, but the only thing she could recall was terror and indescribable pain. It made her flinch and she fumbled to open the car door, needing air and space. Harley undid her seatbelt and stumbled out, kneeling on the gravel road and breathing in the cold air.

"Hey," called Skinner behind her, "I need to get out of here. You stay out there, I'm leavin' without you."

"Just…give me a second." She breathed heavily and shook her head once, trying to clear her thoughts.

"You're fine," she said to herself, "you're better than fine. You have a did a good deed, you made a new friend, you're remembering things. You're good."

It took her a couple of minutes, but Harley managed to calm herself. She looked back to the car and the thought of getting back in made her want to hurl.

"You go on," she told Skinner, "I need a walk."

He didn't protest in the slightest (he actually looked relieved, which made her cross her arms) and said, "See you around, blondie." He drove off, tires squealing, and Harley waved to the back of the car.

"Bye, Skinner!" She yelled after him, "Thanks for the help!"

She turned to face the Joker's club, the ' _Grin & Bear It'_, bat resting on her shoulder.

It was time to get some _real_ answers.

* * *

 **Sorry it's taken my a little longer to post this time round.** **I started a new PlayStation game and...well...that's my only excuse. I've been addicted.**

 **Anyway, Harley has undergone a bit of a change (which I hope you enjoyed), but she's not completely crazy yet; she'll need a bit more of the Joker's influence for that.**

 **Thank you for reading!**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: I am _so_ sorry for how long this update has taken.**

* * *

Harley took a deep, steadying breath and knocked on the glass door.

She waited.

Silence.

The outside of the nightclub was shining green and purple, but inside was pitch black.

" _Hello-o-o_ ," she called. "Anyone home?" She knocked harder, the fall of her fist on the door rapid and sharp. When seconds passed with no response, she sighed and swivelled her head around, searching for a doorbell, hidden keys, a welcome card— _something._

Instead, Harley noticed that _p_ eople were starting to populate the quiet streets. There was _another_ homeless man sitting in the gutter, this one smoking a cigarette, a woman in heels and a mini-skirt walking down the road, a guy with a dog—

" _Ah_!" Harley shrieked and smacked her hands over her cheeks. The three people within a ten-yard radius looked at her like she had grown a second head. "The dogs!" She yelled at them. "I left them outside by themselves!" Horrifying scenarios played through her head, her imagination stilted and flashing like a puppet show. "What if they're dead? Or lost, or starving or—?" Despair sunk into her gut, and her mouth hung slack, "Or what if someone _ate_ them?"

She snapped her eyes back to the towering building before her. Cupping a hand around her mouth, she shouted, "Sorry, Mistah Jay, but a girl's gotta have her priorities straight, and I already dealt with one whack-job tonight."

She turned on the balls of her feet and started walk off, but the sound of a door opening behind her made her whirl around again, surprise causing her to stumble over her own feet. A tall man of medium build dressed in a charcoal suit stepped out from inside the club, his eyes wide on her. His brown beard was neatly cropped and was the same colour as his slicked back hair—hair he ran an agitated hand through now.

Alarmed, he stared at her. "What are you doing here?"

"Hey, I _know_ you," she stabbed a finger into his chest and tried to figure out what the unsettled feeling she had swirling around in her stomach was all about. "We didn't go out once, did we?" It would make sense why she had this urge to _avoid_ him. His expression didn't change as he said flatly, "No."

"Huh. You sure?"

"Yes."

Harley crossed her arms thoughtfully.

"Then are you Mistah Jay?"

His brow crinkled, " _No_."

Harley sucked on a tooth. "Yep. Didn't think so. You're not…" She tried to think of an appropriate word to describe the little she remembered of the Joker, " _fun_ enough." Mistah Jay wasn't quite so _proper_ looking. And the idea of him sporting a _beard_. _Ugh_. It made her shudder. If her words offended the mystery man before her, he didn't show it. Instead his attention flew straight to her person.

"What are you wearing?"

"Oh, it's so _ugly,_ I _know_." She picked a piece of fluff off her 'borrowed' jacket and shrugged. "I don't wanna talk about it. Anyway, since you came from in there,"—she pointed at the closed door—"do you reckon you could pass on a message for—"

"I _meant_ ," his voice rose as he interrupted her request, "Is that a hospital gown?" He looked confused. And angry. And Harley was pretty sure there was some flustered mixed into the pot as well.

 _Is this one of those times I should lie?_

 _He looks a little…upset._

 _Maybe he hates the dress. Maybe if I give it to him he'll burn it for me and give me something pretty to wear._

She stayed quiet at his question, grinding one sock clad toe guiltily into the sidewalk. He took her silence as confirmation and brought his hands up to massage his temples, groaning quietly in annoyance. Not wanting to leave the beard man upset, but in a bit of a hurry, the blonde said somewhat hesitantly, "So, ah, like, I know it looks bad and all, but I've gotten used to it. But I kinda have to go now, so…" She did another little shrug, hefting her bat onto her shoulder.

Beardy blinked at her weapon aghast, like it was wearing lipstick and had just asked him for his number. "Why have you—" he shook his head as if to clear it and then held his hand out.

She clutched the bat to her chest in protest. "No, you can't have Batsy."

He stared at her.

"Batsy."

"Yeah—what, you never named something you liked?"

He sighed and took a shiny phone out of his suit jacket's pocket. "Batsy," he said again. "Wait until he gets a load of this."

"What? Who?" She stood on her tiptoes and peaked over his shoulder curiously to watch his fingers tap across his phone screen. Before she could see what he was doing, he slipped it back inside his pocket and said to her, "I think you'd better come with me."

"Look," she explained, "I'd _love_ to get to know you one time, but I'm kinda busy right now."

He looked at the bat. "You know how to use that thing?"

"Yes, siree," she nodded.

He seemed to have some kind of internal argument with himself where his nostrils flared and his eyes darted from her to the club and back again. "Wait here."

"No," the blonde protested, "you don't get it! My dogs…" He ignored her, walked to the large doorway and disappeared behind the tinted glass. Harley stamped her foot and grunted in frustration.

"All right," she shouted in his wake, "You've got thirty seconds!" Huffing an irritated breath—she needed to find her _dogs_ —Harley started counting. "One, two, three, four—oh, hurry _up_ , already." It wasn't until she had made it to twenty-three that he reappeared, and she started to complain until she noticed the small, black velvet box held tightly in his hand.

"Uh," she stuttered, "this ain't, like, a _proposal_ , is it? Cause you're nice and all—"

"No," he swiftly interrupted, and she felt certain he was trying to keep the exasperation from his voice.

 _Well, why else would you carry those little boxes around?_

 _Yeah, this guy is_ _ **weird**_ _._

"Just returning something of yours," he continued.

 _Seriously, who would—wait, what? Something of mine?_

He opened the box and Harley squealed in delight. "My _earrings_." She made to grab at them, but her hands stilled mid-reach. "Wait a second, Mistah. How'd you get these?" She bit the tip of her thumb, "Last time I wore these—well, no, I can't actually remember that—but anyway, _you_ shouldn't have them."

"They're from the boss," he explained.

Harley blinked. "The who?"

"The Joker."

" _Oh_ ," Harley laughed. "Well, _duh_ , Harley. So Mistah Jay and I are pretty close then, yeah? It's all just crazy voices and images and stuff in my head at the moment, but are we close? Like, _close-_ close? Know what I'm saying?"

Beard man massaged the bridge of his nose with two fingers and muttered, "It's too early in the morning for this." To her he said, "You can ask him that."

Her face brightened. ' _O-o-o_ , is he around? I was coming to say hi—had some questions for him, actually—but like I said, I _really_ have to be going, so can you just tell him I stopped by and that I'll come round later?"

"Mm," he grunted and plucked out her earrings individually, holding them up to inspect them and then passing them to her. He watched as she put them on, and she was pleasantly surprised to find their weight in her ears familiar; they were heavy, but not uncomfortable.

Satisfied they weren't coming off anytime soon, Beardy took his phone back out. "He's…not here right now. I'll get you a ride home."

"Really?" She gasped. "That would be _awesome_."

His thumb paused on the screen. "Do you, uh," he cleared his throat, " _remember_ where you live?"

She opened her mouth to say an enthusiastic _'of course!'_ , but shut it again and gulped. She laughed nervously. "Um, _nope_. Hadn't thought that far ahead."

 _Oh, yeah. Nice one, Harley._

 _Just stop it, okay? Stop being so mean to me._

 _I_ _ **am**_ _you._

 _Well—go find some other blonde chick to be._

Beardy shook his head and muttered, "Never thought I'd say this, but you're lucky he's obsessed with you."

* * *

Less than thirty minutes later, Harley was blowing a goodbye kiss to the spectacularly stoic and silent driver Beardy had arranged for her, and skipping into her apartment. The layout was familiar— _everything_ was familiar—but in the way it might feel to catch up with a friend after years of separation. You knew them, but you didn't really _know_ them anymore. Harley's sulking about it was quick to stop after she found an entire wardrobe lined with high heeled shoes.

Who cared if it felt weird?

It was _hers_.

"Right," she clapped her hands together, "on to business. Punch! Judy! Where are you boys?" She climbed atop the kitchen bench and manoeuvred out the window that led into the alley behind her apartment. "C'mere boys! Mummy's home!"

 _Please be here—please don't be dead._

 _Or eaten._

Harley strained to hear a bark, or perhaps the padding of paws against the gravel as they loped towards her. She waited.

Maybe…maybe they had left? Gotten tired of waiting for her. She didn't know how long exactly she had been gone for. Maybe they thought she wasn't coming back. The thought made her clench her fists until her knuckles were bone white and her chipped nails cut into her palms.

She tried again, her voice coming out feeble. "Punch? Judy? I'm here. You can come back now." Her breathing sped up as she tried to hold back the threat of tears. "Babies?" she whispered.

Nothing.

" _Fine_ ," she exploded, hopping through the open window and off the dumpster. She stamped her foot. "Don't come back then, you dumb _dogs_!" She scrubbed the back her hand over her eyes. "Rabbits are cuter anyway. You hear that?" she shouted, "I'm gonna go buy a _bunny."_

A window opened somewhere above her, curse words and an angry, ' _shut-up'_ accompanying it.

" _You shut-up!"_ Harley screeched right back and collapsed onto the cold, hard ground. "This is the worst," she mumbled to herself, drying her eyes with her sleeves and tucking her knees in close to her chest.

 _You crying about it isn't gonna make it any better._

She sniffed. The voice had a point, she supposed. And maybe if she waited long enough, her two friends would come back. She could stick some steak out the window, maybe a bit of chicken; lure them back to her with a trap (a friendly, _welcome-back-home-where-have-you-been_ trap, mind you). Ever the optimist, Harley took a deep breath and let it back out, steeling her nerves and thinking of the positive.

Until two giant weights flew into her back, sending her face first into the gravel.

" _Ouch."_ Both hands flew to her aching forehead and she reared up onto her feet before spinning around to face her attackers. Her breath caught in her throat before she released it in an ecstatic squeal.

"Punch! Judy! _Judy,_ what are you—?" She laughed, a high, giddy exhale. "What are you _wearing_?"

The two dogs jumped in playful circles around her, rubbing against her legs then headbutting her thighs. They looked thin but healthy, although Judy had a slightly awkward gait, a result of the stitched up wound she noticed on his side. There was a cone around the poor thing's neck, a cone that was dirty and half flattened, presumably by his attempts to take it off.

Although all she wanted to was drape them in a bear hug, Harley instead asked, "You want some help with that?" She knelt down again and reached behind his neck to undo the cone, but was instead pushed off balance by an elated Punch. The happy dog yipped at her, pushing his front legs into her lap and covering her face with wet licks, like his own brand of slobbery kisses. Judy, more reserved but not wanting to miss out, pawed at her arm and whined.

"Okay, okay. Punch— _Punch,_ that _tickles_." She laughed again, swatting both dog away gently and removing Judy's unfortunate accessory. The smaller dog's demeanour immediately brightened and before the blonde knew what was happening, she was landing on her back with an _'oof'_ and being thoroughly mauled with affection by her two boys.

* * *

Harley made instant noodles for breakfast.

Her and the dogs snuggled up on the couch, Judy's head laying contentedly in her lap as Punch tried to steal the food out of her noodle cup.

"Stop that," she grumbled, although her voice was filled with warmth. "I already fed you, and if you eat any more, you'll grow so fat the couch will collapse. Do you want that, huh? Do you want your mum to have to buy a new couch?"

He ignored her, of course, opting to dig his head further into her meal. Resigned, she put it down and let him have it, lifting herself out of her sitting position and making a stop to the bathroom. She studied her face with a judgmental eye in the mirror. Her yellow hair, usually smooth and glossy, was greasy and lank and full of split ends. Faded bruising ran down her temples and across her cheeks, the skin there mottled and brown.

"Hmph," she snorted, "that's attractive." Still, nothing a bit of make-up couldn't fix. As even _she_ was a little grossed out by her appearance, Harley started to take her clothes off, eager to have a shower and get rid of the grime that had settled on her skin like it had plans to a home there. The young woman hesitated when she reached the bandages on her arms. Slowly, and with a wince, Harley peeled them off, revealing a plethora of bruises and scabbed over bite marks. She pressed on one tentatively and hissed as pain seared through her arm.

" _Owwies_ ," she muttered. This, she was _definitely_ going to have to cover up. For one, she didn't need anyone asking questions about them she couldn't answer, and for two…well. They were just ugly, weren't they? Gingerly, she hopped in the shower and cleaned herself gently with the coconut body wash she found, trying to keep her arms out of the stream of water as much as possible. After washing her hair twice, Harley turned the water off and wrapped a towel around her dripping body.

Wiping herself dry, the blonde awkwardly tried redoing her bandages until the effort became too much. It only took her a moment to find a loose cardigan in her closet that would be perfect to hide the injuries with, the red fabric light and smooth on her irritated skin. She pulled on a pair of tight black jeans, plus some showstopper red heels to match and, full of energy as well as smelling _wonderful_ , Harley rounded up the dogs so they could go on a little adventure.

* * *

Their adventure—in other words, the first hair salon Harley came across—was called _'Turning Heads',_ the curly red writing on its large sign telling her no appointment was necessary, and that she should _'walk on in'._

 _Well,_ Harley thought, leaving a sullen Punch and Judy outside to wait for her _, if you insist._

A bell chimed as she entered and the glorious, sparkling smell of hair products rushed over her. An umbrella stand stood next to the door which Harley happily deposited Batsy in. A willowy woman with black hair that morphed into brown at the roots greeted her and led her over to one of the many swivel chairs. Harley watched the woman ready her hair equipment in the tall mirror before her, her eyes focusing on the purple glasses poking out of her shirt pocket. Harley touched her own face in confusion.

 _I wore glasses,_ she remembered, _they were for reading._

"So…what were you thinking you'd like done?"

The woman plucked the glasses out and put them on, giving Harley her attention as the blonde chewed on her lip in contemplation. "I like _your_ hair."

The hairdresser ruffled the bulk of it out of her face, then glanced down at the strands in her hand like she had forgotten what it looked like. "Thank you," she drew out, as though she didn't quite believe the compliment.

"The different colours," the blonde explained, "they look good."

The woman lifted a quizzical brow. "Well, that's very kind of you honey, but you might be the only one who thinks so; it's been a while since I last dyed it."

"Huh," Harley said absently. "I'm Harley, by the way."

"Fiona," the woman replied. "You want a colour?"

Harley's brow crinkled, and she cocked her head thoughtfully.

"Y'know…I think I'd like a couple."

Three hours later (as well as two caramel lattes, a packet of cookies and a box of chocolates), Harley stood up to properly examine herself in the mirror. Blonde curls flowed over her shoulders and down her back, only to have each side meld into a different colour; six inches of aqua blue on the left, and six inches of dark pastel pink on the right. She ran her fingers through the strands, watching the colours glide together, then separate. Harley's smile was a mile wide as she clapped in excitement then all but tackled Fiona in a hug.

"It's _perfect,"_ she squealed, and gave the other woman an emphatic kiss on the cheek, making a loud _'mwah'_ sound. "Thank you, thank you, thank you—you're the _best_." Fiona looked stupefied for half a second before she laughed and returned Harley's hug. The other people in the salon watched them with raised eyebrows and bemused smiles.

"You're welcome, honey," she said, amusement rolling off her like the smell of hair products. Harley sighed contentedly and let Fiona go free. The hairdresser walked over to the front desk and said, "Here's the part where _I_ get to squeal with happiness," and it took Harley an embarrassing amount of time to figure out what she was talking about. She stopped dead when she did.

 _Gah!_

 _Money! Payment! Oh, this is bad._

Looks like she would have to do some improvising.

Oblivious, her new friend started entering numbers into the cash register. Harley glanced around the room like it would provide her with an answer as to what she should do. She _could_ just leave, she thought, try and do a runner—but these people had been so nice to her. She didn't want to do that. A well-dressed man only a few years her senior walked past the window, and Harley saw her opportunity.

She faced Fiona and all but shouted at her, "I'll just be a second," before running halfway out the door and calling out, "Excuse me!"

Punch and Judy both perked up from their lazy sprawl at her appearance, and several people reacted to her call by turning around in question, but the rich looking guy just kept walking. She tried again, "Hey handsome in the nice suit!" That got his attention— _typical_ —and he looked at her in confusion when she waved him over. Fiona at this point was pulling at Harley's arm to get her attention, but the blonde (although not entirely _blonde_ anymore) gently shoved her off.

"Hi," she said when he was close enough, "thanks for stopping. I was just wondering; can I maybe borrow some money? It's for a good cause, I promise." The dark-haired man looked around like he thought she was playing a prank on him, then faced her with a scandalized expression.

"No," he said, like he thought the answer should be obvious.

 _Oh, come on, Mistah. Help a girl out here._

"Pretty, pretty _please_." She asked putting her hands together like a prayer. He huffed in disbelief and turned around making to walk off.

 _Oh, no you don't!_

She reached inside the door to grab her bat out of the umbrella stand, and before she could really consider whether it was a smart idea or not, cracked him over the back of the head with it. He dropped harder than a sack of potatoes and Harley winced. "Sorry," she muttered, quickly kneeling to feel around in his jacket for his wallet. A scream had come from behind her as she had swung, and people on the street were either frozen with gaping mouths or walking past with disinterested looks—this _was_ Gotham City, after all.

She managed to find his wallet, an expensive smelling Italian leather thing, and threw it behind her to a shell-shocked Fiona. "This should cover it," Harley said and waved goodbye to the stunned people in the salon. "Thanks again—I'll come here again next time, for _sure_." She turned and walked outside again, resting the bat lazily on her shoulder and calling for Punch and Judy to follow.

* * *

The lighting inside the restaurant was low, the primary patrons couples dressed in lavish evening wear. It was a pity the dogs weren't allowed in because they would have _adored_ chewing the bottom of the floor length cream tablecloths. Around the time afternoon had turned into evening and the sun was beginning to disappear, Harley had dropped Punch and Judy back at home, both content to nap on the couch after the big day they'd had.

They had had the most exciting time in town, and Harley hadn't wasted any time in sorting through the day's purchases (or stolen goods, depending on how one viewed the legal system), eager to break in her new wardrobe. After changing several times, she finally decided on a deep navy blue dress inset with hundreds of little silver sparkly things, like stars set against the backdrop of night. Tight sleeves ( _perfect_ for hiding scabbed over teeth marks with) hugged her arms down to her wrists and the V-neck slashed deep down her sternum, showing off ample cleavage. The material cinched in at her waist to flare out softly, reaching mid-thigh.

After toeing her way into the highest pair of black strappy heels she could find, she made the decision that she looked _much_ too pretty to stay at home and toddle around all night. Hence the fanciest restaurant she could find.

The waiter that had welcomed her, a thin, elderly man that looked like he could have been some family's butler, led Harley over to a round table for two in the back of the room and pulled the ornate wooden backed chair out for her. She grinned and half skipped into it, trying not to get ahead of herself.

She sang in her head, _it's like I'm a princess_.

 _I'd feel sorry for the country you rule._

 _Oh, hush. I'd be a fabulous ruler!_

"What can I get you to drink this evening?" The waiter asked, handing her the drinks menu.

"Uuum," she said loudly, thinking it through. She looked around the room to see what other people were drinking.

 _Boring, boring, boring._

"Ya got any of those drinks that come out on fire?"

The man blinked. "A flaming beverage? I'm afraid not. That being said, there are plenty of cocktails that I'm sure would be to your taste."

Harley hummed a neutral sound, disappointed. She looked over the menu he still held out to her. "Hey—everything's in _French_. How am I s'posed to read it?"

The man blinked again and looked behind his shoulder like he was considering a quick escape. Smoothing down his shirt, he exhaled, "I'll go and get you the English menu, shall I?"

"Uh-huh," she nodded, and he walked off. She called out behind him, "And the dessert menu, too!" He was gone for a couple of minutes, a time in which Harley played with the napkins, swung back on her chair to lean against the wall behind her, and watched the other customers. The restaurant wasn't huge and table space was limited; there were perhaps twenty other people in there with her, not including the wait staff. A few of the other customers were about her age, but most of them were older.

When her waiter _finally_ returned—how long did it take to find a stupid menu?—she was leaning on her elbows on the hard table top, twirling the pink and blue strands of her hair around with one hand and fingering a pink diamond earring with the other.

"Apologies for the wait," he said to her, handing a couple of new menus over, both of which were considerably more plain looking than the last one.

"That's okay," she waved him off, and studied what was on offer.

 _The hell's a 'hot toddy'?_ she wondered. _It sounds like something a fat, sunburnt man on the beach should be drinking._ She looked through the rest of the drinks, coming up blank for most of them.

 _Oh, whatever._

"Got any grape juice"—she glanced at his name tag—"Michael?"

 _Micky_ , she corrected in her head, _that's much cuter._

His lips twitched, "Wine?"

She clicked her fingers, "Oh, _yeah._ Some of that. The red stuff, though, not the white one."

"Is there a particular vintage—" he started to ask, but then thought better of it and clicked his mouth shut. "Never mind," he shook his head. "Mains?"

"O-o-oh, can I have..." she trailed off thoughtfully, inspecting the menu, "Can I have the chocolate mousse, the lemon meringue pie, and—wait, do you have strawberry ice-cream here?"

With a longsuffering look that said he wished he was on dish washing duty, Micky said, "We have connoisseur raspberry."

Harley smiled, " _Awesome_. A bowl of that too, thanks."

"So," he coughed and adjusted the writing pad in his hands, "no mains for the night, then?"

"Nope," she shrugged happily.

He exhaled loudly. "Very good," he muttered, taking the menus from her hands and leaving her alone. She swung back on her chair again, receiving more than a few strange and disapproving looks from the other people seated. A large, elderly man in particular glared at her with disgust plain on his face. She smiled and waved at him, hoping to bring a smile to his face, but he just turned away. Harley pouted.

 _Fine. Be that way, you big fat meanie._

She would have stuck her tongue out as well, but a gigantic yawn overtook her face. It wasn't that surprising, she supposed; she had been awake for almost twenty-four hours, and sleeping on a rock-hard hospital bed before that. A little voice pointed out to her that there was no way she should still be so awake, that she probably should have collapsed by now, but Harley barely paid attention. She'd sleep when she was tired enough, and that wasn't now.

Her drink soon arrived, the food she had ordered following shortly after. Harley rubbed her hands together gleefully when Micky appeared, eyeing her desserts like she was ready to give chase if they suddenly sprouted legs and ran off. She slipped her spoon deep into the layers of mousse and drew out the biggest spoonful it would hold, trying her best to fit all of it in her mouth and snorting a giggle when she failed miserably. The young woman moaned when she had finished swallowing.

 _Oh, wow._

 _I think I just died and went to heaven._

She quickly finished off the dessert, smiling to herself the entire way through. Bereft that it was gone but filled with anticipation for the next one, Harley craned her neck back to take a healthy swallow of wine, cleaning her mouth free of the chocolate taste. Eagerly, she dug into the melting ice-cream.

Her parfait spoon was halfway to her mouth, raspberry ice-cream dripping into her bowl, when the doors were blown off their hinges. There was an incredibly loud _bang_ and Harley yelped, covering her ears and instinctively ducking beneath the rattling table for protection. There was a moment of silence, of _stillness_ , where people recovered from the shock of the sudden attack, and the blonde shook her head dazedly, trying to dislodge the unwelcome ringing in her ears.

 _What the…_

 _What's going on?_

The quiet that had settled was broken by light footsteps entering the room. The night time breeze floated through the open building, cooling the room down and causing Harley to shiver. The long table cloth was obscuring her vision and she moved to lift it up, but before she could grasp it, someone screamed. The high-pitched noise was followed by another, then _another,_ and Harley covered her ears again, a flimsy barrier against the sound.

 _What is this, people, a competition?_

A gun shot echoed and the screams cut off abruptly.

 _Well, thank whoever's listening for that—I thought my ears were gonna fall off._

 _Although gun shots aren't a fabulous substitute._

Again, Harley moved to sweep the curtain of fabric away, and again, her hand froze before it reached its goal.

" _Ah-ha. Ha. Ha. Ha."_

Harley's breath got stuck in her throat; she _knew_ that laugh.

The same voice rang out, full of confidence, throaty and animated.

"Is there a, uh—a _Doc_ -tor Quin- _zel_ in the house?"

* * *

 **Hiya all!**

 **Firstly, (like I said at the start) I am so sorry for how long this chapter took to post; I realize it's been a ridiculously long time and am feeling adequately guilty. I received some lovely messages asking if I was okay (thank you very much!), and yes, I'm fine. Life has just been super duper busy and hectic as of late. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Hooray for you-know-who coming into it at the end! Please feel free to drop me a comment; feedback is always wonderful :)**

 **Thanks for reading, and see you next time!**


	11. Chapter 11

" _Is there a, uh—a Doc-tor Quin-zel in the house?"_

One part of Harley flailed about internally, a heady combination of excitement, surprise and nerves. The other part unhelpfully pointed out that at least she now knew her full name.

A different voice spoke up, shaky with fear. "Now," the man cleared his throat, "I don't know what you're—" Another gunshot sounded, shrieks and intakes of breath accompanying it, as well as a body thumping the ground. Harley lifted the table cloth a smidgen, peeking out. Blood was splattered across the wooden floor, its source the man that had dared to speak up. The man—the _fat_ man that had glared at her—was splayed awkwardly on his back, red liquid bubbling up from the hole in his forehead. Harley felt all sympathy disappear immediately; fat man hadn't been very nice. Her eyes ran over the room quickly from the blown in doors to the cowering people hiding behind tables and chairs until they finally landed on what she was searching for.

With his back to her, a green haired man, surrounded by four other men clad in suits, stood in the centre of the room, dressed in a now blood splattered tuxedo, white bow tie and black tailcoat included. Twin decorative black and gold guns were held loosely, comfortably in his hands, like they were an extension of himself.

 _The Joker_ , Harley realized with a jolt.

 _Is he, uh, here for dinner then, or…?_

 _His weekly killing spree?_

 _No, wait...he was—he was talking about_ _ **me**_ _._

Harley smacked her palm into her forehead. What was she still doing under the stupid table, then? She crawled under the fabric and into the open about to make her presence known when yet _another_ shot rang out. Harley's eyes darted to the staff doorway where Micky, no doubt coming to see what all the commotion was about, had had his guts freshly splattered against the walls. Harley's mouth dropped open, horrified.

"Look, the fat guy I get, but did you have to kill Micky?" She gestured towards the waiter, "He was turning out to be a real nice guy."

The Joker whirled around so fast, Harley was impressed he stayed steady on his feet. She would have complimented him on the graceful twirl, but she found herself unable to move when his eyes met hers. Eyes that Harley intuitively knew to be blue now appeared black, pupils so dilated she could barely make out the icy colour surrounding them. Shadows encircled the skin around his eyes, the dark colour bleeding into purple and blue until becoming the unnatural white of his cheekbone.

The force of his complete attention sent tingles down her spine and raised the hair on the back of her neck, as though it was his hands roaming over her face, her waist, her legs, instead of just his gaze. It was assessing, heated and predatory. And, Harley decided, she _really_ liked it.

 _He's lost weight,_ one of the voices inside her head remarked, its tone crestfallen. _Has he not been eating?_

His cheek bones seemed a little sharp, his eyes a little gaunt. She doubted anyone else could see it, what with their trembling in fear and all, but she thought he looked…drained. Tired. Desperate.

The Joker ran his tongue slowly, languidly, across his metal capped teeth and smoothed his already slick hair back with a white gloved hand. Rolling his neck, he inhaled deeply, his eyes perusing her body again, snagging this time on the pink and blue of her hair. The Joker stilled at the sight, his head bent to the side. Like he was in his own little world, the restaurant empty of anyone but himself, he muttered breathlessly, "She got it, got it, got it—sucked the cotton candy and swallowed the bubble-gum, kissed the _barber_ on the way out."

 _Translation, anyone?_ Harley asked the voices.

There was a strange silence, bordering on reverent, until one piped up quietly, "He likes our hair."

Oh. Well, that was nice of him. Maybe she should say something nice about his? 'You remind me of a watermelon', or 'That colour matches your serial killer smile.' She tapped her chin. Could they be taken as insults? It was so hard to tell sometimes. Her ruminating was cut off by the squeaking of the staff door hinges from where her waiter friend hadn't had time to shut it properly.

 _Oh, right,_ she remembered _, mad about Micky._

Recovering first from the thrall they both seemed to have been in, Harley looked at him expectantly.

"Well?"

He clicked his mouth shut with a snap and squinted at her, stretching his neck out and rolling his shoulders until a sly smile slunk across his face. Micky's corpse jolted as another of the Joker's bullets was embedded in its stomach.

" _Hey_ ," she snapped. "Stop shooting the dead people—you already killed them once, so now it's just rude." She suddenly noticed the mess of her dessert on the table and sucked in a breath. " _And you got freakin' shrapnel in my pie!"_

The Joker held up two placating hands, splaying his fingers and letting both guns dangle from his thumbs through the trigger guards. "Harley," he cooed at her. "Cupcake, sweet cheeks—sweet _heart_. It's so—so _good_ to see you."

The young woman glared at him, cocking a hip against the table and crossing her arms.

 _What is he doing here?_

 _How'd he find me, anyway?_

 _Wish Batsy was with me._

"Now, a little _birdie_ told me that _some_ one's been a naughty, naughty, girl." He tutted at her, "Pumpkin had no _fun_ at the Sick House, s'that it?"

"I didn't know it was a hospital, okay? And I—oi, what little bird?"

It was then Harley properly looked at the men behind the Joker and the dots were able to connect. She pointed excitedly, "Hey, it's Mistah Beard Man!" Although his expression didn't change, Beardy abruptly looked like a deer in the headlights. The Joker turned his head slowly to where she pointing, and his hand twitched on one of his guns before he shook his head as though visibly dislodging a thought.

" _Frosty_ ," he barked, and the stoic looking man's jaw clenched.

He cleared his throat.

"Yeah, boss?"

The Joker bared his teeth at the man—Frosty—in a sickly-sweet mock of a smile. His tone was one a parent used when dismissing their child from an embarrassing situation they'd caused, and considering how to properly punish them for it later. The green haired man, apparently, did not like attention being taken away from him.

 _You mean_ _ **your**_ _attention._

 _Well. Maybe._

"Go- _uh_ , have a time out in the van. Eat some strawberries, drink some arsenic"—he waved his hand— "no, no, _no_ , some _absinthe_. Go. _Leave._ Go, go, _go_." The man was out the open doorway not two seconds later, a fine sheen of sweat settled on his face. The other three men accompanying the Joker stared into space, apathetic and detached.

 _Um…maybe I shouldn't have said anything._

"And all _you_ people," he called out, spinning around to address his hostages, always the ringmaster to his circus. "Well-ah, _yo-o-o-u_ are all in for a very special night tonigh- _t_."

Harley huffed quietly and picked up her pie, flicking pieces of door and window out of the meringue. Grabbing her spoon out of the raspberry ice-cream that resembled melted brains (she had a reference point now, thanks to the fat guy), she took a tentative bite, smoothing it gently across her tongue in case she'd missed any stray pieces.

 _Huh. S'not bad._

"But let's make this quick," the madman continued, "gotta get this outta the way before the 'ol _Bat_ arrives. Now, _Harley._ "

She glanced up at him.

"C'mere, baby. Come to daddy. Come on, come on, _come on_."

The customers, who surrounded the two of them in huddles, flicked their wide eyes from the Joker to her like they were meerkats performing on the discovery channel. Harley would have found it funny to watch if she wasn't so cheesed off.

She looked out past where the large doors had been and into the street where there were a number of other small restaurants and shops. There were a couple of people looking out of their windows, some filming with cell phones, others talking on them. Harley, feigning disinterest and spitefully wanting to antagonize the Joker a little after he'd barged in on her dinner, didn't look at him as she spoke.

"No, thank you." Her words were prim but vague, like she was in an old period drama, declining a dance offer given by an unwanted suitor instead of a man armed and dangerous. A giggle bubbled up inside her, but she popped that bubble before it could escape.

 _Ooo, this is gonna be good._

The Joker's face crumpled in mock disappointment and he placed a hand over his heart as though having been dealt a fatal blow. "Harley, Harley, Harley. I ain't _askin'_."

The Joker gestured to one of the men behind him who then walked over to their unwilling audience and dragged a middle-aged woman in a black dress by the arm back over to his boss. A glint of anticipation in his eye, the Joker placed a hand on the blubbering woman's shoulder and drew his gun lightly, almost fondly, across her temple and down her cheek.

"Now," he said to Harley, ignoring the woman's pleads, "we're gonna play an itsy-bitsy game called-ah, 'Do What I Tell You, _o-o-or_ it's Family Reunion Time with the Dead Relatives'.

Harley blinked. _That's a terrible name._

Instead of voicing this, she took another bite of pie.

 _Sweet lemony goodness, I take it back. This thing is amazing._

Her quiet moan caught the beginning of the Joker's next words.

" _So_. Harley-girl. Doll face. Apple of my _eye_. What's it gonna be?"

Harley sucked her spoon clean before pausing to tilt her head pensively. Quirking her mouth thoughtfully, she asked, "Well, what if she's _got_ no dead relatives? I mean, yeah, everyone has _some,_ but maybe she's never met them, and so it wouldn't really be a _reunion_ , y'know? _O-o-or_ ," she considered, "maybe one of her relatives recently died and you'd only be doing her a favour if you killed her. Both circumstances kinda defeat the purpose of the game, right?" Silence met her carefully laid out reasoning and Harley shrugged, "You should at least _ask_ her."

The Joker squinted at her and swiped his tongue across his lips, looking between his hostage and Harley like he'd missed something. Twice he opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again just as quickly, unwilling for the words to escape. Harley hid a smile behind another mouthful of pie. Perplexed was a good look on the Joker.

Clearing his throat purposefully, he slid his guns back in the holsters under his coat. Straightening his bow tie, he then clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "New game," he announced. "And you know what? I like this one _better_."

Harley flicked her hair behind her back and wondered vaguely if she'd make it home in time for a late fashion show she had seen advertised on the T.V. earlier. She suspected not, since the man before her seemed to enjoy listening to himself talk so much. Harley sighed. Yeah, it was good to see him—weird circumstances and death threats not withstanding—but the timing was just inconvenient. The blonde huffed and started making her way over to him with her dessert.

"Look, Mistah Jay, I'm sure it's a great game, but I'm kinda busy, y'know? There's this fashion thing on T.V. soon and I bought popcorn to watch it with, _and_ I gotta tuck the boys into their doggy beds cause they're _useless_ at home by themselves and—"

" _Soda_ ," the Joker said the word like it was an epiphany, clenching his fists open and closed in eagerness before running his fingers through his hair.

Harley made a face. "Huh?"

" _So-o-o-da._ And—and little _gingerbread_ girls. Toffy apple and caramel and _grapes_."

Harley's shoulders slumped in exasperation. He wasn't listening to a word she was saying. "What, are we making a grocery list now? That's not a _game_."

His laugh came out a little breathless. " _Peaches_ , Harley-girl. Walnuts and milk and _gravy_. Ya never host a party without 'em."

Harley thought for a moment and then shook her head. "Nope, still don't get it."

The Joker raised his eyebrows and smacked the middle-aged woman crying next to him encouragingly on the back. "You _know._ A little—little _get-together_ back at my place. To watch the, uh,"—he turned to his hostage— "what was it?"

She swallowed convulsively and whispered, "A, um, fash—fashion show?"

He smacked his temple lightly. "To watch the _fashion_ show."

Harley looked between them. "What…really?"

"Uh- _huh_."

Hands on her hips, she asked, "How big is your T.V?"

The Joker rolled his neck, pressed his lips together and spread his arms out to show her a size.

 _That…that's pretty big._

"And you have all that stuff? The soda and the caramel and whatever?"

"Oh, with teensy _sprinkles_ on top."

Harley's face brightened. "Okay! Just gimme a second though, yeah?"

Making her way across the room, she knelt next to her dead friend, pinching the fabric of his apron between her fingers to wipe at some blood on the corner of his mouth.

"So long, Micky. You have fun up in Heaven, y'hear me? Well—if you believe in that sort of thing, anyway." She sucked in a breath, "Anyway. I…"

The Joker made an impatient noise behind her, " _Honey-Pie."_

"Okay, okay, I'm coming. _Spoilsport_." She muttered the last bit under her breath. Folding the apron back neatly into place, she got back on her feet and brushed off her knees. Frustrated, she flung her hands out, "See? I'm up. Where are we— _ow_."

"Light it up, boys," The Joker yelled gleefully, taking her elbow—her sore, bruised, scab marked elbow—in a tight grip and leading her roughly outside to the most ostentatious car Harley could swear she'd ever seen. It was a reddish, pinkish, purplish colour, low to the ground and practically _glistening_ it was so clean. The hub caps were a shiny gold, matching the colour of the intricate paintwork that ran down the side of the doors. The pearl white plates at the front and back of the car read 'JOKER'.

"Nice ride," she breathed.

The Joker interrupted her ogling by wrenching the passenger door open and stalking towards her, only to grasp her shoulders and push her down forcefully into the awaiting white leather seat. Strands of her hair got caught around his cufflinks (Golden letter J's, she noted with interested) and Harley let out a chorus of ' _ow, ow, ow,_ ' when he ripped his arms away without a thought for her scalp. She turned to level him with an angry pout.

"Ain't got time to dilly-dally," he sung and slammed her door shut before swaggering around the car to take his seat next to her. The car smelt new, a mixture of leather, air fresher and a mechanic's garage. Lifting his middle finger to his mouth, the Joker pinched the white material of his glove between his teeth, pulled it off, and then did the same with his other hand, revealing white, coarsely painted nails underneath. Harley thought they were real pretty, but he probably should have chosen a shade that didn't quite match his skin colour so well; it made his fingers look kind of creepy.

Discarding the gloves carelessly to the side, he muttered something under his breath, gliding his now bare hands lovingly across the steering wheel and pressing a button on the door that locked them inside.

"What?"

He snapped his neck to the side to face her and raised his eyebrows, almost excitedly. " _Buckle up_ , Baby. S'gonna be a bumpy ride."

Harley rolled her eyes and ignored him—it wasn't like _he_ was wearing a seatbelt—and crossed her arms over her chest. This was _not_ how she planned her evening to turn out. The Joker grinned and chuckled darkly, putting the car in gear and pressing down on the accelerator. _Hard._

Much to her shame, Harley squealed in surprise as her head hit the back of her headrest when they shot down the road faster than a bullet, tires screeching. She gripped the armrests like her life depended on it (which it quite possibly did) and hunched her shoulders in protectively. Cars ran into shops and houses in their rushed attempts to dodge them, and a symphony of smashed glass and hissing motors followed in their wake. The Joker, taking his eyes off the road for what had to have been a full five seconds, laughed at her, the noise coming out of his throat long and scratchy, like a bow being pulled painfully slow across a violin.

She made a nasty face and stuck her tongue out at him, but his hand shot out, surprising her, and he pinched her tongue between his thumb and forefinger, steering just as easily one-handed. His middle finger ran down the centre of her tongue and Harley snapped her hand up to his wrist, but instead of letting go, the Joker's fingers tightened painfully.

The young woman made a high-pitched sound that was meant to sound angry, when all it came out like was a wimper. Flicking his eyes languidly between her and the road, the Joker murmured softly, "Careful, baby, _careful_. Don't go stickin' this round the bend where it don't belong. Too easy to—uh, _misplace_."

 _Ow, ow, ow._

 _Okay, yep, whatever, just let go now._

"Reggo," Harley spoke around his fingers, "'at _'urts."_

He put on an innocent face, looking out the windscreen at the road again. "You _say_ somethin', baby? That mangy old cat got your tongue?" He giggled. "Does it? Does it?"

 _No, but a soon to be fingerless man does._

Because really…why was she letting him treat her like this?

Faster than even the infamous Joker could follow, Harley tightened her grip on his wrist and _pulled_ , just…not in the direction he was expecting. Two of his fingers entered her mouth completely as she wrenched his hand closer to her face, his thumb and remaining fingers splayed out either side of her mouth, almost like they were cupping her cheeks. She tried not to gag as his middle finger hit the back of her throat, had the brief satisfaction of seeing the Joker's eyes widen, and feel the car swerve wildly off course before she bit down angrily.

Harley was expecting a grunt for her effort. Maybe a yelp if she were lucky—some noise of pain that signified she'd taught him not to mess with her. The deep, gravely groan that started deep in his chest and swelled up out of his throat was not what she was anticipating.

Barrelling down an inner-city street at what had to be eighty miles per hour, the Joker's jaw hung slack as he blinked slowly, his eyes dangerously glazed and hazy. He inhaled a loud and stuttering breath. Shifted in his chair absently.

 _What is he—_

 _He—he likes this?_

 _So_ _ **not**_ _what I was aiming for._

She loosened the grip of her teeth on his fingers, which was apparently the wrong thing to do. The King of Crime whined and shoved his two fingers deeper into her mouth, simultaneously stepping even harder on the gas. Harley _did_ choke this time when both fingers hit the back of her throat, and tore his hand away, leaning against the door and coughing hard into her elbow.

When she managed to calm her lungs down, the blonde turned to her driver and smacked his arm as hard as she could.

"That _hurt,_ " she shouted.

The Joker, a small flush having risen in his cheeks, giggled again.

"You, you—you _tease_. Sure, she's angry, then excited, then… _then_ she can't stand it. But s'okay, baby. I know what'll calm that ever lovin' gooseberry farm for ya." He clicked his fingers, "It's missing, it's missing— _what's_ missing?" His fist slammed down on the dashboard until a sharp laugh wracked his frame. "Oh, _I_ remember. _Mood music_."

Harley snuggled back into her seat trying to get as much space between her and the Joker as possible, clenching her teeth together and all but draping herself over the car door. With his words running through her head, she expected the Joker's hand to reach for the stereo, so was a little confused when she ending up half in his lap after he swerved the car violently, aiming for a group of swaggering boys crossing the road. Their shrieks rang out, audible through even the thick glass of the windows and the revving of the engine, and the Joker hooted with laughter as he hit two of them, sending them flying.

" _Aaah,"_ he mocked their screams, laughing uncontrollably every few seconds. "Sounds even _better_ when you-uh—wait, wait, whaddya say?" He was grinning, smacking syncopated rhythms out on the back of the steering wheel. "When you—you ' _up the volume.'_." The Joker stabbed his finger into another button on the door and the sunroof opened above them, gusting in the cold night air and making the sounds of Gotham City grow louder, more intense. Horns were honking, dog barking, sirens sounding in the distance. All the noise mixed together, sounds born from anger, crime and danger seemed to epitomize the Joker far more than a simple song on the radio could.

Harley cocked her head and watched him from the corner of her eye _._

 _Mood music, huh?_

For some reason, probably to do with the chaotic way the night had already run, it seemed appropriate.

Far behind them, what seemed like an explosion sounded, and Harley climbed up on her seat to pop her head out of the sunroof. She was back in her down a second later, shouting with renewed vigour.

"What the hell, Mistah Jay! Did you just _blow up_ that restaurant?"

The man leaned back in his seat, shrugging nonchalantly. "Harley, Harley, Harley. I was right _here_. Why'd you even think that?"

Harley scoffed. That was rich—and she was an idiot.

She seethed, "You don't actually have any of that stuff you said, do ya." It wasn't a question.

Still, he deigned to answer, "Sure I do, Pumpkin. We got toast and, _u-u-uh_ , _pine_ apple and eggs."

"You didn't even say any of those things earlier!" Harley hit her head back against the headrest. "Please tell me you at least have a T.V."

"Oh, we got cable, and _everything_."

Oh, joy.

She was never going to catch that fashion program, was she? _And_ , not only was she never going to eat another delectable dessert from that restaurant again, but a perfectly good bag of pop-corn was sitting on her kitchen bench, going to waste.

 _It's cool, Harls. Just means you get to eat it later._

 _Yeah, unless the boys get to it first._

The thought made her turn cold with guilt. Her babies! They'd been so happy to see her when she got home, and now they might think he had gone and left them again. She was a terrible mum.

Another of the Joker startling laughs jerked her attention to him, and he sung, "I spy with my little eye, somethin' beginning with, mmm, _B_."

Oh, great, a _nother_ game.

"Oh, I don't know," she huffed, "is it 'bald-brow', cause there's at least _one_ of those in here."

His eyes rolled to the corner of their sockets as he gave her a puzzled side-glance. Oh, come on, did she have to explain _everything_?

"'Bald-brow'," she repeated. "Ya got no eyebrows, so ya forehead's bald. Get it?"

He hummed faintly and smoothed a thumb over the area to which she was referring, otherwise unmoved by her explanation. " _Wrong,"_ he drew out, and then pointed out her window. Following the direction of his finger, she flinched as something big and black smacked heavily onto her side of the car, causing the wheels to bounce.

"Oh, we have a _winner_!" The Joker announced, and withdrew one of his embellished guns from its holster. The car squealed and veered as he lifted his arm and shot through the open sunroof at whatever had latched onto them. And whatever—actually, _whoever_ — it was, it was _freaky_ looking. A dark mask shaped in what looked to be an animal's face and a…a cape? Wow.

This guy needed to get out more.

He was gripping the sides of the car in an attempt not to slide off, his constant motion meaning each of the Joker's bullets barely even grazed him. Harley was content to watch in shocked befuddlement until the psycho mask wearing caped weirdo managed to get a decent grip on top of the car and plunged his muscular arm— _oh my gosh_ , _check out those biceps_ —inside it, latching onto her shoulder, and half pulling her out.

Harley _shrieked._

She tried to twist out of his grip, but the guy must have eaten solid steel for breakfast, because he wasn't budging. Air rushed into her face as her head cleared the roof, and hair whipped around her face painfully. Below her, the Joker swore and twisted the wheel avoiding being crushed by an oncoming truck. They were in a much less populated area now, the lighting from each streetlamp casting sinister shadows on the man that had so rudely extracted her half out of a moving vehicle.

 _Oh, screw this._

Reaching down into the car as far as she could, Harley flailed her arm around until it made contact with her goal. The Joker tensed as she ran a hand blindly down his shoulder and across his chest where she took a firm hold of the second gun he had hidden beneath his Jacket. The gangster's delight was a palpable thing that soaked into her as he understood her intent. She heard his laugh even over the rushing of the wind.

Cocking the ornate weapon and bringing it shakily to the masked man's chest, she fired.

His grunt was lost to her as he rolled off the car and onto the awaiting road, and Harley fired the gun again just for good measure. And then again because it was actually kind of fun. Something yanked on the bottom of her dress and she collapsed in a sore heap on the leather of her chair. The Joker, beside her, was in hysterics, slapping his mirth out on the dashboard, his shoulders shaking. His hoots and giggles—so wild and full—were contagious, and Harley was soon laughing with equal abandon.

When compared, it was a rather uneventful drive after that.

* * *

 **I am so sorry for how long this has taken me to upload.**

 **I was ready to upload it a little while ago, but we've been having a whole heap of internet problems, so this is the first chance I've gotten. I hope having the Joker back made up for it, though! Hopefully you enjoyed it :)**

 **Thank you for all the follows/favourites/reviews. Every single one makes me happy and excited.**

 **Please don't be scared to tell me what you think, and I'll see you next time :D**


	12. Chapter 12

"Nice place you got here. You ever thought of—oh my gosh, is this _real_?"

Harley picked up the purple snakeskin trench coat that had been carelessly draped over an antique style black leather chair and examined it. After driving for the better part of an hour the Joker had pulled up outside a solitary small and unassuming building. The inside though, was anything but.

The room's dim light showed an open floor plan, a small bar and kitchen on the far left of the room and a pool table on the right. In the centre was a round glass table where five well-dressed men had been playing a round of cards. A television attached to the ceiling of the bar playing late news provided the only background noise, and even that seemed to fade into silence when the men saw their boss had returned.

Harley had waved and started to introduce herself yet the only acknowledgement they received from the Joker was a flick of his hand towards the door which apparently meant 'get out'. The Joker then placed his arm hard across Harley's shoulder's and steered her across the room and up some stairs as each man swiftly left.

Letting go of her abruptly as they reached the second floor and ignoring her excited question, her companion walked off into a separate room and slammed the door shut behind him. Harley dropped the coat back onto chair and sulked.

"Rude," she muttered, "and random. _You_ were the one who brought me here. Wherever 'here' is." She looked at where he had brought her and blinked in surprise.

The room before her was a mess.

 _Actually_ , Harley corrected in a bizarre moment of clinical thinking, _it feels more like a physical manifestation of the Joker's thought process than just plain 'mess'._

Pictures and writing, some of them legible and some of them complete gibberish decorated each wall in an array of colours. A varnished wooden table was pushed to the side of the room and riddled with a dozen knives each a different size and type. Cards, magazines, handgun cartridges and other miscellaneous items could be found on every piece of furniture, from the expensive looking leather couch that had been sliced open, to the desk with all its draws open and overflowing.

Everything looked expensive.

Everything looked butchered.

The only thing that seemed to be untouched—other than (thank the fashion show gods) the massive television—was a brown bearskin rug lying before an unlit grey stone fireplace. Harley went and knelt down on it, patting the dead animal's head.

"Y'know," she said to it, "this place is kinda homey. Maybe just a couple of flowers to brighten it up—just like, some roses or something. A cactus or two." Harley sniffed and wrinkled her nose, "And does it smell like something's burning to you? Maybe I should buy your owner some incense sticks."

Harley waited a few more seconds and when the Joker didn't appear, decided to take things into her own hands. Turning on the flat screen TV, she then flicked through each channel before she managed to find what she was looking for. Her eyebrows rose, "Good thing he drives fast," she said to her newest friend, "It's just about to start."

Each outfit that came on the screen received a critique from Harley. "No. No. Maybe if it was in pink. Ew, no. _Ooh_ , that's pretty. Honey, that colour does not suit you." It was about thirty minutes later that the male models got their turn on stage which made Harley's interest levels drop faster than a sack of potatoes. Sitting upright and stretching her arms above her head, the blonde once more took notice of her surroundings.

Sitting behind her at the wooden table was the Joker. He looked relaxed, his limbs slack, his head lolling idly on the high back of his chair. He was breathing quietly, watching her with heavy lids. Next to him on the table was a bottle of soda and…that was it.

Harley stood and turned to face him.

"Hey, Mistah Jay, where d'ya keep all the snacks? Through here?" She made to walk into the room he had previously disappeared into.

" _Uh-uh-uh_. Ain't nothing you want to see in there, Harley girl."

"Oh. What is it, like, your torture chamber or something?" She took her hand off the door handle.

"Hmm. S'in the basement. Too much—too much _trouble_ hauling them up with all the red stuff." He shook his head, "Boys had too much fun downstairs with their _group therapy_ circle. Dug into all the, uh, snacks. No marshmallows or nothing left. Greedy, greedy."

"What? But you—but I want some. You said you had all this stuff, that's why I came with you!"

The Joker made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat.

"Tell you what, Gumdrop. I got this right nice drink here for ya. And tomorrow," he pointed at her, " _tomorro-o-o-w_ …we'll stop by the little corner store. You can get whatever you want—daddy's treat."

Harley huffed and stomped over to him, snatching the drink and taking a swig of it. It popped and fizzed in her mouth and she made a face against its sourness.

Grape Soda. Her favourite.

She sighed. "Okay, okay. Corner store it is. And thanks for letting me use your TV. Mine's not nearly as big." She looked back at the screen. The program had finished and advertisements had started to play. "Welp, I better be off. Can I use your phone for a taxi, or…?"

The Joker tsked and jerked out one of the knives planted in the table. "We're all _friends_ here, blondie. Why not stick around? Can't remember the last time I had a decent slumber party." He stood and wrenched his bow tie off before smoothing his hair back with two hands, the knife caressing his hair like a lover. He took a step towards her.

Harley had the forethought to place her drink down, and then took a step back before he would have the chance to tower over her. He was imposing enough on his own, but add in a large serrated knife and Harley felt a flutter of nerves hit her stomach harder than a fist. He took another step towards her, his eyes glowing in what Harley could only guess was pleasure.

"Uh," Harley walked backwards, and tried not to stumble as he prowled after her eagerly, rubbing the hilt of the knife and cracking his neck.

"Y'know," she laughed nervously, "tonight's been a real blast, but I got a couple of babies at home that'll worry if I ain't back soon. Need me to feed them and everything—they're useless. Heh."

Inhaling through his nose, the Joker reached up to his fastened collar and undid the little white buttons, revealing the black ink etched across his skin.

"Oh, don't worry about _them_. My boys will treat 'em real nice. Some studded muzzles here, a little Rusty Jane over there—service of the _top-rate_ variety.

Harley's back hit the wall. "Rusty what?"

"Patience, Harley girl, ya gotta be _patient._ They'll be right as kittens tomorrow, slobbering and fetching. Chasing their little tails."

Harley splayed her hands in confusion. "Wait, wait a second. Are you saying…Are you bringing them _here_?"

The Joker bared his silver teeth in a smile as he closed in on her, causing crow feet to appear at the corner of his eyes, "Already bought the chew toys."

Harley blinked a few times and tried to regain her bearings. "Oh. Um…Why? Did I—did I miss something?"

He hummed highly, a faux distressed sound. "No, no _, no_ , pretty girl, don't be so hard on yourself. I just wanted to surprise you, s'all. Don't ya like surprises?"

"Well…yeah. But the dogs ain't gonna like a bunch of strange men barging in on them and, wait, how do you know where I live?"

The Joker didn't acknowledge her words but reached into his suit jacket's pocket and pulled out a purple phone decorated with gold glitter. Humming softly, he tapped something out across the screen. Harley steeled her nerves and cocked a hip. Maybe if she said she'd stay there for the night he'd stop following her around with a knife.

"Well since they're there and all, you reckon they could bring the goldfish with them? He lived on the counter in his little fishbowl and was dead when I got home. I didn't get to give him a proper funeral, and I feel bad that I don't even remember him, know what I'm saying?"

He turned the phone to the side, tilting his head along with it. "And…sen _-t_." With a flick of his wrist, the Joker threw his phone to where she had been lying on the bearskin rug.

" _Shh_ ," he gave her his full attention, "you're sounding worried, sweetheart. Ain't no reason to be worried. In fac _-t,_ I think it's time for a little _snooze._ Clear your mind and, mm, rejuvenate the _senses_."

The blond played with a strand of blue hair distractedly. She _was_ getting pretty tired. It had been a long time since she'd had a proper rest and her body was starting to feel it. In fact, the more she thought about it, the louder the pounding in her head became. Her bruised and bloodied arms still hidden beneath her long sleeves stung and her joints ached.

That, and everything was kind of…fuzzy.

Realization slowly sunk in. Slowly, she pointed a finger to the drink she had taken a swig of. "You —I, _ugh_." Slapping a palm to her forehead, she slid down the wall and landed unsteadily on her backside.

" _Shh_ ," the Joker knelt before her, gently cupping his large hand around her neck and her unsteady breathing hitched even more. If he squeezed, she would be dead within minutes. If he twisted his wrist, he would snap her neck. She didn't even want to think about what he could do with the knife. Instead, he stroked his thumb up and down, scraping the nail against Harley's sensitive skin. The movement moved her hair behind her ear and the Joker's eyes stuck on her large pink earring—a gift from _him_ she remembered. His tongue slid along the front metal of his teeth.

"Pretty do _c-_ tor." His words came out longingly, although his expression was dark. "Pretty, pretty skin. Pretty, pretty eyes." The grip of his hand tightened as he dug the tips of his nails into her throat, "Pretty voice. And her _lips_." The Joker smacked the wall beside her head with a fist.

Harley blinked rapidly, trying to stay conscious. He had drugged her. The stupid joker had freakin' stupid _drugged_ her. She wanted to lift a hand and smack him away—or maybe headbutt him—but she knew there was no way she was sitting back up if she lost her balance.

"You were so good to me, you know that? Shy little glances. Big baby blues. Scared when you should have been." He groaned, "But so _feisty_." He leaned in closer, so close she could feel his breath on her neck and could count each individual eyelash.

He brought his lips next to her ear. "Never thought you'd stop being such a good little girl. Thought you were waitin' for daddy to, uh, _whip_ you into shape. _Bu-u-u-t_ …looks like little Harley girl managed to get there on her own." He leaned back an inch. "Don't nap for too long. Places to blow up, people to kill."

Her last coherent thought was that she hoped she wasn't one of those people.

* * *

Harley was in a cocoon of sheep.

At least, that's what it felt like. She blinked groggily and pushed the soft, woolly blanket out of her face. She had been sleeping curled up in a ball and so the wine-coloured sheets were now tangled up and around her legs. Still weak from sleep and having very little motivation to free herself, Harley snuggled back into the mattress.

The young woman breathed in deeply.

 _Huh. Strange._

 _What's that smell?_

It smelt like hair gel and…aniseed?

 _What?_

Harley's eyes snapped open. Heart rate increasing slightly, she got up onto her knees and dragged the blanket around her when the door suddenly burst open. Next thing she knew, she was being lovingly assaulted by two enthusiastic fully-grown Doberman.

She let out a shriek of happiness. "Punch! Judy! You're here!" The wiry dogs jumped up and down on the bed eagerly, licked her face and ran circles around her. Judy showed signs of calming down after the first minute, but when Punch's excitement levels rose to be that of near wetting himself, Harley tried to settle them both.

"Down, babies, down," she tried to say firmly, but ended up laughing delightedly as they continued to nuzzle her. The next thing that came through the door wasn't quite the pleasant surprise her dogs had been.

The Joker, dressed in the purple trench coat she had ' _ooh_ ed and _aah_ ed' over the previous day, stood in the middle of the doorway. Golden rings adorned each of his fingers and matched the chains that swung loose on his neck, accentuating his tattoos. His green hair, as always, was lovingly combed back, the bright colour complimenting the shade of his lipstick.

Harley instantly stiffened at the sight as the previous night came flooding back to her. Last thing she remembered was falling awkwardly to the ground as he closed in on her after she'd realized her drink had been drugged. Punch and Judy sensed her anger and discomfort and set their sights on what had upset their mum. Growls settled in their throats as they both hunched in on themselves.

The Joker heaved a sigh and looked at the trio, forlorn. "Oh, come on boys and girl—don't be _strangers_."

Punch, deciding to be on the defensive, planted himself protectively on Harley's lap, effectively cutting off both her breathing and her scathing reply. The Joker took a step inside the room and Judy snapped his teeth.

The criminal whistled through his teeth. "Loyal mutts ya got there, sweetcheeks. Looks like they'd make a couple of nice _rugs_ , too." Hearing the warning loud and clear, Harley gently pushed Punch to the side and spoke to both dogs soothingly.

"S'okay," she whispered, "S'okay. Good boys, you ain't got nothin' to worry about." She got up and inched off the bed as she spoke, edging around to where the Joker stood. The room she had awoken in was modestly sized, nothing but a large bed and a nightstand occupying it, as well as a few random objects strewn across the floor. It took very few steps to reach his side.

The Joker looked at her expectedly like he thought she would rant and rave at him, or perhaps start crying. She was upset enough to do all three—after all, who drugs someone they're meant to be, y'know, _close_ with—but met his unpredictable gaze straight on. And so, instead of ranting and raving, she decided the more appropriate thing would be to punch him in the face.

Though she suspected he could have dodged it if he wanted to, her knuckles hit him firmly in the jaw with enough force to snap his head to the side. The sound of her fist hitting his face was the most satisfying sound she could ever remember hearing. Behind her both dogs barked, like they were trying to spur her on.

The Joker, his head still bent to the side, blinked a few times and then giggled. Ever so slowly, his penetrating gaze came down to meet hers. Deliberately, he ran his thumb along his reddened jaw and then smacked his lips together.

" _Go-o-o-d_ ," he murmured, amusement still in his gravelly voice. "Good little do _c_ -tor hitting on me."

"That's for—" Harley started, but got cut off when, too fast for her to follow, the Joker wrenched her out of the room by the arm and slammed the door shut behind them. Furious barking sounded behind them as the Joker pushed her back against the door and Harley felt a violent push at her back the instance her babies began to claw at it.

Harley's head had hit the wall hard and she had to shut her eyes when a dizzy spell washed over her. Nausea swirled around in her stomach—a consequence of whatever had been in her drink—and she gulped in a breath of air. The Joker cupped her cheeks with his large palms and Harley's eyelids fluttered as her hands came up to grip his forearms.

"You, you, _you_. So much _fire_ in you this morning. Fire, fire, I _like_ it." He sounded positively delighted.

Harley swallowed and blinked again before the world around her finally stopped spinning.

" _Mmm_ , I _like_ it," he repeated. Next thing she knew, the Joker's lips were meeting hers in the only kiss she could ever remember having. His mouth came down against hers hard and so fast that it could only be classified as a peck.

" _Mwah_ ," he sounded teasingly before patting her on the head like a faithful dog. Harley coughed and wiped at her mouth. Her lips were tingling and stained a greasy red from his make-up. She gulped.

The Joker's chuckle was deep and playful. "Fire, fire, fire," he whispered, smiling at her. He let go of her then, and straightened his coat before turning and walking through the living room and down the stairs that led to the barroom. Harley stood frozen—stupefied—until another howl and bang at her back snapped her out of it.

"Dogs," she muttered, "gotta let the dogs out."

She opened the door and they all but flew past her, jumping here and there, ready to defend or attack if necessary.

" _Wait_ ," Harley called and they stopped in their tracks. "Come here," she said, and the two dogs looked at each other as if they wanted to ignore her. "Babies," she knelt, "c'mon. Come here." Reluctantly, they did so, both of them on edge with pent up energy. She gave them each a loving scratch. "Mummy needs you to both wait here while I have a chat with the nasty man downstairs, okay? Both of you sit, and we'll go out for treats later." Her stomach growled at the mention of food. "Lots and lots of treats," she corrected herself. "Sit, boys."

Punch complied straight away but Judy, true to form, gave her some attitude.

"Judy. _Sit_." The dog let out a huff of indignation and dropped onto the floor.

"Good. Good boys. If all goes according to plan you'll be eating like kings later—or I guess that's the leader of the pack for you guys. Either that or you'll be eating the Joker. Get excited!"

* * *

Harley walked down the stairs and into the spacious room. The blinds were shut and the dim, artificial lighting made her squint a little.

 _Is it night time still?_

 _How long was I sleeping for?_

The room's single occupant sat with his back to her at the round table, shuffling a deck of cards. Making her way around the table, the blonde stood opposite him.

The Joker's hands continued their motions, though he didn't look at her as he spoke.

"How's about a game?"

She crossed her arms, "No. Play by yourself."

He clicked his tongue three times. "If you win, I'll tell you what _ever_ you wanna know."

"No," she said again, "I don't want to know anything. I'm going home."

The Joker ran a finger up and down one of the cards. His voice suddenly became softer. "Play with me. C'mon, pumpkin. Don't you wanna know why you were at the Nut House? Or where those love bites on your _rosy posy_ skin came from?"

Harley pulled at one of her sleeves. How did he know about those?

He smiled, "Play, play, _play_."

" _No_ ," Harley slammed her palm on the table, "I was having a real nice time last night 'til you showed up and spewed people's brains across the room. Because of you some weirdo freak in a mask tried to pull me out of a moving car, I didn't get to finish my dessert, I've got killer headache cause some jerk drugged me—oh no, wait, that was _you_ —and now my goldfish _ain't ever gonna get a_ _proper burial_."

Harley, fire in her eyes, swung her hair back and met the Joker's calculating stare.

"So, yeah. I don't want to play with you."

He squinted at her, "Couple of nourishing _sleeping pills_ ain't bothering ya, are they? Your Mistah Jay just thought ya looked a bit tired. Daddy just wanted to _help_."

"Yeah, well you could have just _asked_."

"Oh, but I did, cupcake. I did, I did, I did."

Did he? Harley couldn't remember clearly enough to be sure.

"You should know," he sung lightly, "daddy's always worried 'bout his little girl. Is she laughing? Is she having fun? Is she—is she _sleeping_?"

His 'little girl' massaged her forehead. Her headache was coming and going, but at the moment it felt like her cranium was being split down the centre. She had a split-second thought of asking the Joker if he had any painkillers, but got rid of the idea as soon as it came. Who knew what would happen to her if she took any more of his 'pills'.

But regardless of whether he was telling the truth or not…who else was she going to ask? Skinner had said the Joker escaped that night Crane released his fear toxin throughout Arkham Asylum. So that meant he had been there while she was a doctor there. The first time she had heard his name, all these crazy memories that she couldn't make sense of tried to surface. And then there was that Frosty guy who had insinuated they had been close…

Harley looked the Joker straight in the eye.

"I know I'm a doctor and I know I do gymnastics. Something happened at my workplace, Arkham Asylum, with this stuff called fear toxin. Whatever it was really hurt, and that's why I was at the hospital. Oh, and we seem to be pretty close so I'm guessing I was your doctor or something—unless you hand out pink diamonds on a whim let every girl call you daddy, in which case I'm not ever speaking to you again." Harley thought over what she just said, then nodded. "So, unless you know anything else about me, I'll be on my way. Toodles."

She had only taken one step before he answered.

"Oh, Do _c_ -tor. All that's just the tip of the _ice-berg_." He leaned forward like they were sharing a secret. "Ya wanna know what _really_ happened that night at ol' Arkham? Why the, uh—" he giggled, "the _man in the mask_ was after you? I can tell you _e-ve-ry_ thing."

Harley bit the inside of her cheek.

"…Everything?"

He only raised his eyebrow and smiled.

It felt like she was a balloon and someone had popped her with a pin, because her body just deflated. Heaving out a breath of acceptance, she asked bleakly, "What sort of game?"

The Joker clapped, " _That's_ the spirit."

* * *

 **Good grief, it's been _ages._**

 **Hopefully this small bit of Harley and Joker interaction will tide you over until the next update.**

 **Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to read this. I have no idea if I've mentioned this, but it's my very first time writing a fanfiction, so to have received such a lovely response is really encouraging. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter!**


	13. Chapter 13

The cushioned leather chair squeaked as Harley sat down opposite the Joker. It was a swivel chair and Harley pushed herself back and forth with her bare feet. She felt like crossing her arms and sulking because he had managed to get his way _again,_ but settled instead for turning that annoyance into steely determination. Harley was smart—hell, she was doctor smart. She could win against the clown and get her answers.

"So," the blonde asked again, eyeing the cards in his hands, "what kind of game is it?"

Noticing the direction of her gaze, the Joker's brow rose. "Oh, we're not using these. No, no, no, we gotta whole other different game to play." He threw the cards behind his shoulder where they scattered and floated to the wooden floorboards.

The young woman scratched at a scab on her arm absently. "Yeah? Well that doesn't change my question. What are we playing?"

"You," he paused to smack his lips together, "ask one of your, mm, pesky questions, and then your lovin' Mistah Jay"—he gestured to himself—"will ask one of _his_."

"Okay." Harley waited for the rest of the explanation. When it didn't come, she prompted, "And? How do I win?"

He raised a finger, "Uh-uh. That's the _point,_ Honeybun. You and me, me and you, we're _a-a-all_ _winners_."

 _That's not what you were saying two minutes ago,_ she thought. _Is he just making this up as he goes along?_

"So, it's like an answer for an answer type thing? You tell me your secrets and I tell you mine?"

" _Bingo_."

As far as she was aware, Harley didn't have any secrets to tell, which made the odds decidedly in her favour. The thought cheered her up.

"But," he said, "with one teensy tiny, uh, difference." The Joker's tattooed left hand covered his mouth as he laughed, slow and cold. The noise raised the tiny hairs on the back of Harley's neck.

That sounded…not so good.

"Yeah? And what's that?" He stared at her, blood shot eyes locked so intently on her face, she couldn't help but fidget. Was it getting warm in there? It sure felt like it, and the blush spreading across her cheeks said as much.

Oh, who was she kidding?

The Joker was attractive and staring at her with a look so hot it could melt her into goo. When a man that charismatic, powerful and egotistical paid super special attention to a girl, it could make her feel real special.

 _Oh, fabulous, the new and improved Harley strikes again, crushing on the psychopath that drug—_

 _La la la, not listening._

 _Harley, he's a manipulative, deranged—_

 _La la la, still not listening. Oh, and he was classed as a high-functioning sociopath, not a psychopath. Get your facts right, voice._

Harley winced at how loud her head's co-tenant swore at her, but then sucked in a breath, thrilled at having remembered something else, no matter how small or inconsequential it was. The Joker's painted lips were moving, his eyes glinting, but whatever he had been saying was left in the dust when Harley opened her mouth.

"You're a high-functioning sociopath," she blurted, effectively cutting him off. "And—and an egomaniac! With intermi—inter— _ugh_ , that disorder thingy that makes you go crazy when you're angry."

She clapped excitedly. "I _remember._ I was your doctor and—"she pointed at the cards on the floor—"we used to play cards together, right? Am I right?"

The Joker let out a throaty sigh and reached into his purple coat, pulling out a small knife with a bright gold handle. Harley frowned at it in confusion until he started cleaning his fingernails with it.

"So?" She said for what felt like the hundredth time that day, "Am I?"

He dug at the beds of his nails in silence.

Irritation flared in Harley. She nudged his foot under the table with her own.

"Hey."

Nudge.

"Why are you ignoring me?"

Nudge.

"Mistah Jay."

He changed hands with the knife.

"Is it cause I called you a sociopath? Y'know, I didn't mean it as an insult." Frustration was thick in her voice and as she studied him. The cogs in her mind turned as she realised he didn't look so much insulted as he looked like he was…sulking?

 _What? Why?_

 _Yeah, what'd I do?_

The prim and prissy voice of the more sensible Harley interjected.

 _Manners 101, Harley. Other than name calling, what did you just do that anyone, egomaniac or not, would find rude?_

She thought.

And then thought some more.

"Uh…"

The lightbulb switched on for her, " _Oh._ I interrupted!"

Harley had punched him in the face which he actually seemed to enjoy, yet when she made one measly interruption, he started moping about it? Would this man ever make sense to her? The Joker's eyes had flickered over to her momentarily at her little realization, but had landed back on his hands.

The young woman bit down on her lip.

"Um, sorry about that. For interrupting, that is. Go on with what you were saying."

His eyes flicked up to her again.

She gave an innocent smile. "I won't interrupt again. Honest."

The Joker gave another sigh and started muttering under his breath as he continued to work the knife.

"She still ain't got it," he said, voice soft. "All Mistah Jay wants to hear, with that great big _cherry_ on top. Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty…"

Harley cocked her head. "Pretty…please?"

"Hm?" He looked up at her, almost polite and inquiring.

"Pretty please, will you finish what you were saying?"

A sigh and an eyeroll. "Blah, bla-blah, _blah_. Ask ya questions, blondie."

An ugly feeling of inadequacy welled up in Harley at his slight loss of patience. He was like a teacher who'd just given her a smack on the hand for an incorrect answer, the sting of it cutting deep. The young woman bit the inside of her cheek and lowered her eyes. She had apologized. What else was she meant to do, beg?

Swinging her legs back and forth, her feet skimming the wood of the floor, Harley decided on her first question.

"What happened that night at the asylum?"

The Joker made a noise in the back of his throat, still petulant. "Be more _specific_. Who, how, where, why an' all that."

"Fine." She crossed her arms. "Where are all the other people from the asylum—my colleagues and whoever."

"Uh, sorry to _break_ it to ya, Doll-face," he didn't look sorry, "but…" he dragged a finder across his throat.

 _Dead._

"But—but then who _did_ survive?"

He pursed his lips and made a show of counting his fingers, shaking his head and starting over a couple of times. "That guy with the face," he muttered, "weed lady, Scardey-crow…"

Harley's heart leapt with excitement hearing her friend's name. "Do you know where Crane is?"

The Joker let out an angry gust of air. "Scarecrow, Scarecrow, Scarecrow. You always have something to say about the gawky li'l nerd."

"Hey, Craney-poo ain't a nerd. He's just real smart."

The Joker's eyebrows shot up to greet his hairline, wide eyes blood-shot yet energized. He mouthed, " _Craney-poo,"_ several times before reaching down and grabbing his gold handled knife off the table. Body tight as a coil, Gotham's crime kingpin stabbed it into the table where it made a crack in the glass. The blade was bare inches away from her fingers, the metal vibrating side to side. His open hand smashed down on the table between them. Flexing his jaw, the Joker leaned in so close Harley could make out every tattoo and scar that lined his face.

"Craney- _who_?" he near whispered, the warning in his voice clear.

Harley huffed.

"Yeah, yeah. The skinny guy with the glasses and the bad attitude who likes to brood." She snapped her fingers, "Hey that kinda rhymed! Attitude. Brood. Heh."

The Joker's eyes rolled up to the ceiling as his jaw went slack, and if Harley didn't know any better, she would have thought he was appealing to some higher power for patience.

"Butterflies or dolphins?" He asked, head still leaning back.

Harley sucked on her bottom lip. "In what context?"

His eyes crinkled. "All of them."

Both were good, but if she had to choose…

"Dolphins. I don't like bugs. I mean, I like lady birds, and butterfly wings are super pretty, but they have too many legs." She blinked. "But wait, I hate fish. But—dolphins aren't fish, right? They're some other kind of…thing. So maybe butterflies. No, wait. Dolphins. Is there no third option? Like a chipmunk or something?"

He gave her a blank look, eyes out of focus. Looks like she'd lost him.

She rolled her eyes, "Fine. Dolphins. Jumping out of the water with a rainbow in the background like on the nature channel."

A satisfied expression spread across the criminal's face. His eyes travelled down what he could see of her torso as he muttered to himself, "Dolphin. Dolphin over the rainbow rollin' round on the waves. Likes playin' with them _seashells,_ he does."

Harley's eyebrow near reached her hairline. "Oka-a-ay. My turn again. Where'd I get all these injuries from? And why do I have this weird feeling you had something to do with them?" She gestured to her arms and the bruises on her body.

The Joker tipped his head back thoughtfully, eyes flicking over her features before landing on her forehead. Harley brought a hand up to touch her temple curiously. "What are you looking at?"

His eyes crinkled as his hands came up in protest.

"Nothin', nothin', ain't looking at nothin'." Still, his gaze didn't leave her forehead.

"Uh—yes, you _are_."

An expression Harley almost thought looked _fond_ flashed across his face before he hid it behind the grin on his hand.

"Uh-uh, blondie. Not lookin'—no scar, no bruise. Not one itty-bitty mark. All them nasty _doc-_ tors make 'em like that, doncha know? Invisible—uh, invisible _pain_ ," he drew the word out, then giggled. "S'like _magic_."

Harley was incapable of reigning in the stupid expression gracing her face. She shook her head. "Huh?"

" _Hallucinations_ , Harley-girl. You can thank your bosom buddy's party perfume for those pretty little surface wounds." He glanced down at her arms and snapped his teeth at her playfully.

She grunted, not entirely convinced. "That doesn't answer—"

"You got an old man, baby? An old lady? Any… _playmates_?" he spat the word out. "Somebody missin' you?"

She lifted her arms helplessly. "Probably. But you didn't answer—"

"You, _mm_ , remember them? They stuck, deep, down, _dark_ in there somewhere?" He tapped himself lightly on the temple.

"Well, no, but—"

"You miss 'em?" he drew his bottom lip into his mouth, his next words popping with its release. "Wish they were _here_?"

" _No_ , and that's more than one question." Truthfully, she remembered very little about her family. A faceless man with brown hair, a tall woman with a sharp smile. It didn't upset her. It would come eventually, she was certain. And if it didn't…was it possible to miss something she didn't remember?

 _I'll find out, I guess._

Not wanting to continue down this line of questioning, she quickly moved on.

"How'd you find me last night?" It had been niggling at her ever since she woke up. She had picked a place to eat at random, and he just happened to find her there? Did he have someone following her?

His face scrunched insincerely, and he sucked in a loud breath. "Now _that,"_ he replied, " _that's_ a s-e-c-r-e-t." He shrugged, unrepentant, and went straight to his next question. "So. How _are_ we enjoying the new Harleen Quinzel? The previous one was plenty fun, but this—this _new_ model…" He groaned, the rumble rising from deep within his chest. Pale hands ran through vibrant hair, fingers tugging at the green strands as his icy eyes rolled back into his head. "I _like_ her."

Harley's teeth gritted together so hard, her jaw grew sore.

Honestly, she liked herself plenty as well. She had bright pink and blue hair, doctor level brains, and a wardrobe of high heeled shoes waiting for her at home. Sure, there was other stuff to figure out, things to rediscover about herself, but she thought she seemed fairly nice so far. What was not to like?

But if the Joker was going to keep messing her around with his answers, she was going to kick his shins under the table.

She flipped her hair behind her shoulders and crossed her arms. "Sorry, can't tell you that. It's a s-e-c-r-e-t."

Her companion hummed, like he was expecting as much.

A bang sounded behind Harley and she whipped herself around.

"Boss," two men ran inside the first bright eyed and buzzing with energy, the one behind—the one Harley recognized as Frosty—looking apprehensive, like he wasn't quite sure what he'd find inside.

"Boss," the man she didn't know repeated, catching his breath. "We found them."

Harley looked between the Joker and his henchmen, head going back and forth like a meerkat. It was only a miniscule change to his expression, but Harley could see it in the way his eyes widened slightly the way his breathing picked up; he was anticipating something. He was _happy_ about something.

Harley glared at him a little.

 _Guess it's only me he doesn't like interrupting him._

 _Stupid Clown._

The kingpin rubbed his hands together and left his chair, walking around the table to stop only inches from her.

"Hmm, _both_?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir."

Frosty stayed quiet, clenching his fists and darting his eyes between each person in the room.

"Clever, clever boys," the Joker smiled. He stalked to behind the small bar on the other side of the room and scooped up a long purple cane, delicate linework decorating the handle in gold.

Harley frowned. "What's going on? Where are we going?"

The tattooed man took no notice of her words, instead loading a couple of guns and placing them in his holsters. He picked up an extra one, and examined it quickly, brushing his thumb over the trigger softly.

"Mistah Jay, stop ignoring—" Harley flinched as the Joker's gun went off. The man Harley didn't know screamed out and fell to one knee, clutching his thigh. Frosty grimaced at the sound but lost the edge of nervousness he'd had about him, standing straighter to attention.

 _Looks like he was expecting that._

 _But seriously, Mistah Jay? Dramatic much._

" _Frosty_ ," the Joker barked, "bring the car round."

He brought his face close to hers. "Now _Harley_. Daddy's got a little, _mm_ , present for you. Ya gotta be patient though, pumpkin, while he takes a little trip to pick 'em up." He flicked her nose. "Be a good girl for the babysitters while Daddy's gone."

Harley squawked out a protest, but the Joker was already moving towards the door, kicking the man's good leg from under him.

"Make sure ya _knock_ next time," he chastised on his way out.

* * *

An hour later Harley was lying on the bear skin rug, her head resting on Punch's stomach and her fingers teasing Judy's ears. The television played quietly in the background, a slender woman with short cropped hair and a bright red dress giving a weather report. Harley had spent the past thirty minutes trying to figure out the extent of her gymnastic ability in the Joker's living room. Her body seemed to know what to do without her mind telling it, so Harley had pulled up the sleeves of her dress and simply enjoyed the ride. Bend-overs, splits, flips and balance exercises—she had particularly impressed herself with a minute long, one handed handstand.

After the Joker's somewhat dramatic departure, two other men she wasn't familiar came inside to hustle her upstairs, both of them ignoring the moans of the man still writhing on the floor. "If he's not back soon," Harley had argued to their passive faces, "I'm leaving. I got stuff I gotta do." They hadn't given her a reaction, just left her with copious amounts of processed food and drinks like she was an animal they were trying to tame with the promise of a full belly and good place to nap. She hadn't touched any of it, not trusting she wouldn't wake up having been drugged again the next day.

Harley sighed and scratched Judy's head a little harder. "I would totally say you could use this entire room for a chew toy as a bit of revenge, but I actually don't think it could get worse than it already is." She'd had to kick a lighter, a ball of string and a bunch of what she'd strongly suspected were dynamite out of the way to make herself comfortable on the rug.

Punch huffed and pawed the floor behind her.

"Mmm," she agreed. "He does know how to ruin a good time, doesn't he."

Her eyelids fluttered shut without her permission, the warmth of her two dogs relaxing her and her skin clammy from the sweat of her workout. She sighed again, this time through her nose.

"Wonder what that present was he was talkin' about. Any ideas?"

Neither dog was forthcoming, and Harley drifted off a little, the background noise of the television running softly through her head.

"… _Two college students have died after…Celebrity billionaire Bruce Wayne of Wayne Enterprises…Doctor Harleen Quinzel has gone missing after disappearing from the Gotham General Hospital two nights ago."_

Harley's eyes snapped open.

She sat up and Judy yipped at the sudden movement, readjusting himself grouchily. A picture of an attractive young woman filled the top right of the screen, eyes blue behind black framed glasses.

"I'm on T.V," She said to herself and then screamed. " _I'm on_ _T.V_."

She fanned the air around her and laughed. "This is so _cool_."

The report didn't mention a whole lot, just that she had been a victim of the Scarecrow's _'night of terror'_ at Arkham Asylum and that if anyone recognized her, they should contact the police immediately.

Harley was almost disappointed when her picture vanished from the screen, her twenty seconds of fame over, until the next story left her even more wide eyed than the last.

" _Police have arrested Doctor Thomas Elliot as an accomplice to the attack which devastated Arkham Asylum earlier this week. Led by former Psychiatrist, Doctor Jonathan Crane, this attack took the lives of twenty-three staff members and over forty patients. Elliot, a former student of Crane's, was found tied up and unconscious close to Miller Harbor by the hands of whom police can only assume was the Batman. Crane, still at large and otherwise known as 'Scarecrow', has recently been sighted near Cape Carmine at the Gotham Docks. Anyone who notices…"_

The newscaster went on, rattling off names Harley didn't recognize and contact numbers for in case of sightings. The story wrapped up quickly and an ad started to play, the upbeat jingle out of place in Harley's dazed mind.

"Crane," she murmured. "Cape Carmine. Gotham Docks."

Her heart sped up and adrenaline started pounding through her body until her hands were shaking with it.

"Well, boys." Punch and Judy's ears both pricked up and Harley couldn't contain the smile that enveloped her face. "I think it's high time we break out of this joint. Whaddya say?"

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed!**


	14. Chapter 14

**What was that? Did someone say...romance?**

* * *

Harley wasn't the type to plan ahead all that often, but in retrospect, maiming her babysitters and stealing a car had gone much smoother than she would have assumed. Punch and Judy had been all too happy to take care of the two men while Harley crept down the stairs mumbling half-hearted apologies under her breath for the injuries her boys were causing.

Harley shut the door to outside quietly behind her and let her eyes adjust to the haze of early dusk. It took her a moment to realize that the road—and almost as far as the eye could see— was…empty. Where was this place? This couldn't be Gotham City, surely. Clearly, she hadn't registered this particular fact the night the Joker had brought her here, which irritated her. How hard was it to realize you were in the middle of nowhere?

She huffed and made her way over to the only other building in sight, a massive garage with multiple roller doors, two of them currently open. Sounds from inside indicated she wasn't alone and the closer she came to the open doors, the quieter she made her footsteps. Crouching, she peeked inside.

Ceiling lights hung low, cold, sterile light glinting off a dozen cars. A few men—no women, Harley noted curiously—occupied the space, a couple laying back on some dusty couches watching television, another tinkering with a machine gun. Harley scrunched her face up.

This…did not make for the easiest escape.

What she _really_ needed was some type of diversion…A lightbulb flicked on in Harley's mind, and she sucked in a quick breath as an idea formed.

 _Oh, this is going to be fun._

Running back inside as fast as she could, Harley ignored the bodies on the floor and stopped only when she'd made it up the stairs. It was the Joker's mess that would facilitate her escape.

* * *

 _Gun?_

Check.

 _Lipstick?_

Check.

 _Lighter?_

Check.

 _Dynamite?_

Double Check.

Harley had crept back outside and hidden behind the house trying to find the best vantage point. She didn't want to blow the Joker's place up _entirely_ , just maybe blow a little off the side; something that would cause a worthy riot between the Joker's henchmen.

It was getting darker, and with no streetlights for lighting, she soon wouldn't be able to see much of anything.

 _Better act soon, Harley_ , the voices sung to her.

"I'm going, I'm going," she muttered back, adjusting the gun she had stolen against her leg. Harley had picked up the small pistol and taken an instant liking to it. Black and sleek, it made her think of those spy movies where the ladies always had one hidden beneath their skirt. Following that line of thought, she had snooped around for a while until she happened upon a thigh holster.

It made her feel a little diabolical and she loved it.

Taking the sticks of dynamite she had retrieved, Harley stuck them upright in the ground, leaning against the house. She reached for the lighter as adrenaline pounded through her body and had to stifle the desire to laugh. This was going to be one hell of a big _bang._

She reached down to light the wicks and all too suddenly they were blazing, Harley sprinting around the front of the house to where Punch and Judy were awaiting her, fingers stuck in her ears and no longer able to keep her giggles in.

It was quiet all around her, and then…

 _Kaboom._

The earth rocked beneath Harley's feet but she managed to keep her balance enough to stay upright, as did the two dogs. Her ears were ringing and she crinkled her nose when a strange smell wafted from the back of the house. As soon as she could hear the shouting, she knew she'd done her job right.

Punch and Judy had startled at the noise, one squeaking in surprise, the other whining. Harley pat them both in apology and urged them to follow her. They ducked around the side of the wall and watched as the men ran out of the garage, wide eyed and pale. Taking her chance, she slipped inside, a grin painted on her face.

The three of them ran past a workbench with enough knives on it to put any chef to shame, and then had to manoeuvre themselves between a couple of vans Harley instantly decided were unfit for the getaway type.

It was then she noticed the cherry red convertible hiding in the corner. Now _that_ was fit for a getaway car. She ran to it, jumping over the driver's door onto the white leather seats and then removed the plastic cover from beneath the steering wheel. The dogs settled in the back, both on edge.

"Let's go, let's go, let's go," she chanted as she found the correct wires and twisted them together. The engine started, and Harley whooped in triumph.

The tires squealed as her foot hit the accelerator and she laughed in glee as the wind whipped through her hair. Clearing the garage, there was a split second to appreciate the henchmens' stunned expressions, and then Harley was gone.

* * *

It took her over an hour to find any type of civilization and by that time, Harley was sick of listening to the country hour. They had a couple of good songs, sure, but if she had to listen to another banjo solo anytime soon she was going to rip her hair out.

Turning the radio down, Harley took stock of her surroundings—a quiet street of apartments, the only signage around graffitied beyond recognition.

 _Guess I'm gonna have to do this the old-fashioned way._

And thus started what was a near three hour long trek of asking for directions. Most people were open to her, although some gave her a disturbed glance when she mentioned she was on her way to Cape Carmine. Otherwise, compliments abounded—' _I love your car',_ they'd say, some of them near drooling, or, _'what well behaved dogs you have.'_ Harley could tell the woman was lying about that one when Punch got out and peed on her.

When she finally arrived at what she hoped was her destination, it was well past midnight. She was idling near the docks, enjoying the sound of languid waves hitting against the retaining wall. It was cold down by the water, but Harley thought she had never seen such a pretty sight in all of Gotham, the moon lighting the ocean a blanket of silver and blue.

It wasn't exactly quiet here; there was a flurry of activity in the buildings around her and people occasionally came out to pick up crates to take inside or make a phone call. It was peaceful though, and Harley could see why someone would pick such a place as their hideout.

She was still driving slowly, taking in each new scene when she spotted a burly man walking down an alley and swinging his crowbar casually. Harley took a look at his bald head and then did a double take, squinting into the dark.

"Skinner?" Harley slammed on the breaks and Judy faceplanted into the passenger seat. _"Skinner!"_

She couldn't believe it and her incredulous smile said as much. The man whirled around, confusion slapped on his face. He spotted her waving and his head jerked back in surprise.

"Hotwire chick?"

* * *

As it turned out, the 'gang' Skinner had joined recently belonged to none other than Carmine Falcone, head and owner of Cape Carmine. Not what you'd call high up in the ranks, Skinner had only heard a few rumors over the last couple of days, but it was enough.

It took a little while and a lot of cajoling, but Harley finally got him to spill the beans on Crane's whereabouts. Crane, as it turned out, had been in cahoots with Skinner's new employer for quite a while. The notorious mob boss had, in fact, played a large part in the recent escape, supplying the ingredients for the fear toxin and smuggling it inside the asylum.

"So-o-o, _why_ did the mob guys help get Johnny out?"

Skinner shifted uncomfortably and glanced behind him as Judy glared at him from the back seat. "Hell if I know. The more crazies on the streets, the more Batman pays attention to them instead of the gang, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"Mm," Harley nodded thoughtfully. That did make sense. "What do you know about Batman, anyway? He's a _weird_ one, he is."

Skinner shrugged and rubbed his hands together. "Dude digs bats, I guess. Never met him, never wanna. Hey, turn left here."

Harley did, pulling up in front of a massive warehouse barely lit inside and full of shipping containers. " _That's_ where Crane's staying?"

"Sure is. Watch yourself, though, the cops have been keeping an eye on it. And you heard nothing from me. Keys?" He stretched his hand out and Harley rolled her eyes. In exchange for information, she had bargained away the Joker's car. He had so many already, she doubted he would miss it.

"Fine." She went to give them to him but then reeled her hand back. "And where are you letting my boys off?"

Skinner reeled off her home address and Harley dropped the keys into his waiting palm. Turning to the back seats she scratched Punch and Judy's ears. "Mummy will be round to get you soon, babies." She mock-whispered to them, "You know what to do if he takes you some place strange."

Punch barked, and Judy started growling, which Harley took as an affirmative. Harley would have taken them with her but figured this was one visit they could do without. She could tell they were growing tired and cranky.

She turned back to her friend, gripping either side of his face and kissing his shaved head enthusiastically. "Thanks a bunch, Skinner! Say hi to Sally for me."

The man waved at her half-heartedly as she jumped out of the car and blew a kiss to Punch and Judy. Skinner revved the engine and then she was alone.

* * *

The warehouse, Harley soon discovered, was just as miserable on the inside as it looked on the outside. Shipping containers were stacked up to the ceiling to the right of her, and rusty tools were hung on the wall to her left. The concrete floor was covered in dirt and Harley scrunched her face up at her heels as they became coated in it.

"Hello," she called out. "Crane? You here?" Her voice echoed in the quiet. "It's me, your favourite doctor, come to see ya."

Something in the corner of her eye shifted and she followed the movement.

A rusty hammer appeared out of the dark, and then a voice.

"Are you here with the police?" The person stepped into the light, arm shaking and blue circles beneath his eyes.

She squealed in delight. _"Johnny!"_ She ran at him, tackling him so hard the hammer flew out of his grip and into the shadows. She could feel his thin frame nearly give out beneath him.

"Harley?" Crane's mouth gaped open. "You…What in Batman's infernal name happened to you?" He placed his hands on her shoulders and ran them down her body clinically. "You are Harley, yes? Harleen?"

"Hey," she pushed him off, "hands off the goods, Johnny." Her friend looked her in the eye, one of his own twitching. Harley was fairly certain she'd rendered him speechless.

"Aww, I'm just kidding—c'mere." Harley's arms shot out to envelop Crane in another hug.

"Ugh," she rubbed circles into his back and snuggled into him, "It is so good to see you! I didn't know whether you were actually here or not, and then I woulda just been stuck here, and—Hey, are you okay? You don't look so good."

His cheeks were gaunt, and his hair was a mess, wild and greasy, as though he'd been running his hands through it. His lips were chapped, his eyes bloodshot and his glasses smudged. This was not the Crane she remembered, self-righteous and dignified.

"You—I—what?"

"You don't look all that flash," she reiterated. "And are you still wearing your asylum uniform? I've been in this dress for, like, a _day_ and it's gross. You should probably find some new clothes soon."

He placed unsteady hands on her waist and pushed her back. "What are you _doing_ here? How did you—" His face turned nearly as pale as the Joker's. "You were at Arkham that night, weren't you."

"Hey,' Harley knocked him on the shoulder playfully. "What's the matter? You not happy to see me?"

"I told you to leave early that night."

Harley frowned. "What?"

"You silly girl," he bit out. "I pushed the escape plan back, made sure it wasn't on your worknight, gave you fair warning, and all for what?"

Harley spluttered for a reply. "You didn't say anything to me about it." It came out like a question, lilted and confused.

"I _did_ , I told you—" Crane snapped his mouth shut and let out a breath through his nose. "Like I said," he continued, regaining some of his cool. "I told you to leave early that night. What on earth were you doing there?"

She shrugged helplessly. What was she meant to do, apologise for being a good employee? That Crane had meant to keep her out of the attack was a revelation, all right. It solidified the idea she already had of him in her head, that they were friends. It made her happy.

"I don't know what you're so worried 'bout, Johnny. It's real sweet of you, but look, I'm shipshape." Harley did a twirl for him.

That drew him up short and shrewd eyes assessed her. "Yes," he murmured. "You're acting awfully chipper when compared to the usual specimens." His eyes glazed over. "To have a personal and intimate relationship with the subject, to be able to _properly_ identify the behavioural changes and to recognize the full extent of the toxin… that would be a fascinating case study."

His cheeks started to dimple in a rare smile that made Harley smile back until Crane shook his head abruptly. "But no. No. Harley. Well," he paused thoughtfully, "perhaps at the same time. Yes."

Coming back to reality, Crane rubbed a finger along his chin. "Any side effects you've noticed?"

Harley nibbled her top lip. "Well, my memories are a bit hazy, I guess. And I have all this energy all the time. And I'm really hungry."

"You're really hungry." He repeated. "You had a near lethal dose of fear toxin and you're not terrified out of your wits, but instead have a craving to eat."

Harley nodded, "Yep."

"What else happened to you that night?"

"Uh…I think I fell over a few times. There was so much weird stuff going on, I don't really know what was real and what wasn't. A lot of pain, though. You're not planning on doing that again anytime soon, are ya?"

Crane shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "What kind of pain?"

Harley groaned petulantly. "The kind of pain that hurts, you dummy. C'mon Johnny, I'm bored. Tell me what's been going on with you."

"No." He shook his head at her, "You're not acting like you should be. Something else must have happened to you. Something more. You've even reverted back to that ridiculous accent of yours. And what did you do to your hair? It looks ghastly."

"Crane," she snapped, pulling at some strands of blue, a little offended. "Stop being so mean. At least Mistah Jay likes me plenty fine this way." The last part was muttered under her breath.

 _Speaking of the Joker,_ one of the voices piped up, _what do you think's gonna happen when he finds out you left without saying goodbye?_

 _Oh, he'll be fine._

 _Uh-uh. He'll throw a tantrum. You know he will._

 _No, he—_

 _Oh, really, Harley? I think you feel guilty. I think you miss him a little._

Crane's head snapped back. "What did you just say?"

"What?" She asked, the voices far too distracting. Crane suddenly looked…perturbed?

"What did you just say?"

 _Probably shouldn't have mentioned Mistah Jay like you did._

 _Yeah, Crane and him ain't exactly friends, remember?_

Harley planted her hands on her hips.

" _Nothin'_ , okay? Just forget it. I was real excited to see you, but I guess it don't go both ways."She turned away then, every intention of leaving him to languish in the dingy, sour smelling warehouse.

"No, wait—Harley. You, I…I'm _sorry_."

Harley stopped. His usual smooth voice came out strangled. "These past few days have been rather trying, you see. Your hair is fine—no, your hair looks… _unique_. Now please, come back here and tell me how you found me and what you're doing here."

Harley tongued her molars thoughtfully. It wasn't like Crane to be so repentant. The past few days must really have taken their toll. She sighed in resignation and made her way back to him.

"All right, all right. But my hair looks great, okay, not just _unique_. And I like my accent. Makes me more personable and whatever."

Crane opened his mouth, most likely to say something drowning in sarcasm when a noise behind Harley froze both of them dead.

" _Ha. Ha. Ha-a-a."_

A gun was cocked.

"Well, well, well. Looks like _somebody_ ran away from home with the new _boy_ friend."

Goosebumps ran up Harley's body as she whirled around, and her mouth hung loose in disbelief as the Joker stepped out of the shadows, gun held in steady in one hand, cane in the other.

He tsked. "Naughty, _na-a-aughty_. Guess daddy's gonna have to show the little do _c_ - _tor_ just. Who's. _Boss_."

Next to her, Johnny looked like he was ready to puke. His adam's apple bobbed as breathed out a curse word Harley never thought she'd hear him say. His eyes were glued to the newest arrival and only when he had seemed to process the Joker's words did his attention then flit back to Harley.

"Harley," Crane addressed her, voice hoarse. "What is the clown doing here?"

All she could manage was a numb shake of her head, words stuck in her throat.

How did he keep _finding_ her?

The Joker smiled widely. The shadows of night time darkened the silver of his teeth, transforming his his mouth into a void ringed in red. He had discarded the purple coat Harley had seen him leave in, a half buttoned green dress shirt in its place that made his pale skin seem to glow. Black holsters hung at his sides.

With the amount of time she had been gone, there was a chance he had been back to his safehouse, but then one of his boys would have called in the explosion, anyway. It's not like she had left a trail for him to follow, so…

 _Think_ , she urged herself, _think, think, think._

More eerie laughter echoed through the building and Harley moved herself directly in front of Crane.

The Joker's mirth was cut off at the movement. "Harley-girl, _Honey-_ bun. Gonna need you to move your sweet, sweet self to the side _ju-u-ust_ a li'l bit."

Harley rubbed the back of her neck. Maybe she should have thought more about leaving his place the way did. Anyone would be upset after that.

She said weakly, "Mistah Jay, this isn't any of Johnny's fault, pinky swear." She held her little finger up at him.

His smile appeared again, crow feet forming at the corner of his eyes. The expression was entirely insincere. "Ha-a-a-rley. _Move._ " He shot a warning shot in their direction which made both her and Crane jump.

Crane seethed from behind her. "I did not break out of Arkham only to be threatened by the miserable likes of _you_."

"Oh, s'that _so?"_ He wedged his cane beneath his arm in a practiced motion before cocking the gun again. "I'll try and make this quick, then." He shot again, this one landing closer to them than the last.

"Mistah Jay, stop it! I'm sorry about your place, okay? I shouldn't have blown it up!"

Crane let out a choking sound from behind her. "Harley, you did _what?_ "

The Joker hummed. "Oh, no, no. _No."_ He waved the gun like he was batting the thought away. "Don't worry about _that,_ pumpkin pie _._ Daddy'll let you pay him back for it _later."_

Harley heard Crane mutter a revolted _'daddy'_ behind her as the Joker raised the gun towards them yet again.

 _You stubborn, green haired—Ugh! That's enough!_

Faster than anyone there had time to blink Harley pulled the small pistol from where it was hidden beneath her skirt and pointed it at the Joker. The Joker's brow raised, scrunching his forehead up as he looked at the weapon in mild surprise.

And then… _Delight._

Throwing his cane to the side and dropping his gun, he stalked towards her, stopping only when the barrel of the gun rested lightly against his forehead. Balled up energy seemed to fizz and crackle around him, anticipation heavy in his expression.

"Do it," he breathed. Harley had to stop herself from taking a step back at his presence, though she could feel that Crane already had. It registered with her that she should check if he had completely abandoned her to the Joker—understandably enough—but whether it was survival instinct or something else that was beginning to take root inside her, she couldn't look away from the man before her.

"Go on, do it. _Do_ it. Shot by _Harley Quinn_ ," The Joker called out, each syllable of her name being savoured. His eyes trailed her face and body, up and down, up and down. "What a way to go," he whispered.

Harley gulped. Her steady grip on the gun wavered as butterflies made their way down her throat and low, low, _low_ into her belly. The flapping of so many tiny wings made the embers that was starting to settle there feel more like a firestorm. The Joker must have seen her resolve cloud over because next second, the gun had been ripped from her tenuous grip. She flinched as he chucked her under the chin with it playfully.

"Better be a bit more _trigger_ happy next time, Harlequin."

Harley giggled bashfully at the name and the affectionate look he was giving her before slapping a hand over her mouth. The Joker now had her gun, and she had nothing. This probably wasn't the time to flirt.

The Joker took a measured step back from her before his voice rang out loud and clear. "Now. _Craney_ -poo. _Buddy_. You know it's not nice to play with other kid's _toys_." He winked at Harley and then aimed the gun at Crane.

"That's how you get kicked off the _play_ ground."

He pulled the trigger.

 _Click._

The Joker growled and looked at Harley like it was _her_ fault the gun she had found on _his_ floor had been empty. Still, Harley felt the relief wash through her. She hadn't thought to check for bullets, didn't even think she knew how.

Not one to be deterred, the Joker brushed past Harley and advanced on Crane, the frail man tripping over himself feet in his haste to escape. One crack of the gun over Crane's head swatted him to the side, the next rendering him unconscious. The third hit his face and broke his glasses, but it was on the fourth hit, when blood started pouring out of her friend's nose, that Harley realized the Joker didn't plan on stopping.

" _Mistah Jay,"_ she gripped his arm, "Mistah Jay, _stop_."

The Joker tossed the bloodied pistol to the floor where it joined his cane before turning on her. He gripped her wrist so hard she thought it was about to snap and then tugged her outside. The Joker slammed her against the wall of the warehouse so hard, for a second all she could see was stars. By the time her vision cleared, her wrists were pinned above her head with his blood drenched hand, and he was patting her down with the other. She started to protest.

" _Shh_. Daddy's just checking you're not keeping any other _slip-_ pery… _surprises_ on you, _Harley_."

Harley kicked him in the shin. The Joker grunted and then giggled. "Again, again," He tightened his grip on her wrists. "Do that _again_."

Harley didn't. Instead she stopped and relaxed her body.

He continued, not loosening his grip. "Y'know, I had an itty-bitty _hunch_ that you'd try to—to _run off_ into the unset and get yourself lost." The Joker patted her cheek lightly. "But to find you down _Falcone's_ neck of the woods," he whistled, low. "Now _that_ was a shocker. Do you know what big, mean boys like them do to lost, littlegirls like _you_?" His voice was soft. Crooning. Harley stayed silent.

"C'mon, sugar. Give it a _guessss_."

She ground her teeth together. "They hurt them."

The Joker nodded sagely. "They hur _-t_ them."

"But you hurt people too."

He breathed in deeply through his nose and rolled his shoulders, neck straining. "Harley. _Harley._ The joke, Harley, get the jo _k_ e."

Harley could feel tears start to gather in her eyes; the Joker was getting properly annoyed at her now, she could tell. She ignored the voices that needled away at her, asking why she was crying at this and not at the fact he'd beaten Crane bloody.

"What joke?" She asked, voice thick.

His eyes formed slits as he smiled at her and lifted his hand to cover his mouth. She couldn't decide which grin she preferred.

"What joke do you think, baby?" The words were gravel.

Harley swallowed. "You?"

The Joker made a noise in the back of his throat, throaty and encouraging.

"Are you the big joke, Mistah Jay?"

His eyes shut and he titled his head back as far as it would go, baring his inked neck to her. The hand atop his mouth slid down his body.

" _We're_ the joke," he brought his stare back to hers. "Harley _Quinn_."

His eyes _burned._

More black than icy, they devoured her.

Memorised her.

 _Wanted_ her.

Their breaths mingled, hers sweet and his sour. The Joker's brought his hand down, freeing her wrist and his fingers traced the lines of her face, the slope of her cheekbones, touching air instead of skin. His hand held only the slightest of tremors.

This wasn't what she thought should be happening. She was annoyed at him. She was hurt and vindictive and wanted to show him she couldn't be pushed around.

But at the same time, something about the very real blood on his hands was making her breathing shallow. The way he watched her like nothing else existed, the way he held her like someone would have to rip his arms off before they could touch her; all of it meant she stayed silent. Meant she let him— _wanted_ him—to touch her.

The hand that had caressed her settled at the back of her head, plunging wrist deep into her hair. Harley's hands had moved to rest on his chest without her permission and her body hummed at every heartbeat she felt beneath her fingertips. It sung at the way he shut his eyes like he was in pain as he breathed her in.

" _You_..." The word was a sigh, his voice lower than she had ever heard it. His hand tightened painfully in her hair as the other came to rest lightly on her collarbone. Harley sucked in a breath.

And she finally gave in.

Harley stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against the Joker's.

She could feel his entire body tense beneath her hands. She sucked his bottom lip between hers hesitantly and then bit down.

 _Hard._

His stomach spasmed and a whine escaped his throat, the sound quickly morphing into a growl. He pushed her harder into the wall more animal than man in that moment and pressed his lips back against hers. He tasted sharp and bitter, a heady blend of metal and chemicals. The grease of his lipstick slid over her mouth, and her lips tingled in response.

Harley's hands travelled, up, up, up his torso until one of them landed in the back of his hair. She pulled at the strands, and he replied in kind, tugging at her hair until her head bent back and she had to fight to not be entirely at his mercy.

This wasn't a give-and-take kiss. This was the kind of kiss where you took and took until the other person was left bleeding and broken with nothing left to give. She pushed her tongue past the wall of his lips and basked in the feeling, in both the familiarity and the foreignness of the action. He caught hold of her tongue between his teeth and Harley moaned softly as he touched it with his own, the sensation serpentine and slippery.

The Joker slipped his arms around her torso and lifted her up roughly, bringing a knee between her thighs for her to lean down on. His actions weren't clumsy—he was too much of a narcissist for that—but they were unpractised and raw, like she was the only one he had ever thought worthy enough to do this with.

She could die happy with thoughts like that.

The Joker's fingers dug into her back and Harley whimpered. He ripped his lips away from hers to drag his mouth across her cheek and speak directly in her ear.

"C'mon, baby." His voice was harsh and guttural, but she could hear the smile in it. "Got a place I wanna take you."

To refuse him didn't even occur to her.

* * *

 **...Anyone for a chemical wedding next chapter?**

 **Haha, thank you so much for reading! I had so much fun writing this chapter, so I hope you all liked it as well. Please, please tell me what you think. Your reviews are seriously invaluable to me, especially now since we're delving into the actual romance. Please feel free to tell me what you liked, what you think could get better or just anything at all, really.**

 **Thank you again for reading!**

 **Would old Harley have left Crane bleeding and possibly dying in a warehouse? She would answer you, but she's a bit too tied up with the Joker right now ;)**


	15. Author's Update

**Hi everyone!**

 **So, it's been a while (a really, really long while – I do apologize for that.) Regardless of whether anyone is interested in reading this anymore, I wanted to let people know what was going on. I haven't updated in a while partly because of health reasons, but primarily because there's a few things in this story I'm not happy with and it's been annoying me so much I haven't been able to bring myself to write any more. SO, in saying that, I'm going to be going through The Cure to Sanity and giving all the current chapters an edit before posting new chapters and finally finishing it (it's about flaming well time, huh.) Nothing major will be changing in regards to the story-line, but if anyone wants the original, just let me know.**

 **You're all gems!**

 **Rin-Gildy**


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